Maysilee.

That's the word that has shaped my life. I never knew her—she died nine years before I was even born—but she has had more impact on me than even the Capitol.

It is thanks to her that I cannot enjoy my position as the daughter of District 12's mayor, by no means an easy one but a sanctuary among the suffering of my district.

It is thanks to her that I never knew my mother. Mother spends half her life in bed, fighting headaches and memories of her twin sister. And Father has his mayor duties, so I grew up alone.

It is thanks to her that I have this mockingjay pin, this brutal reminder, the only whole piece from her body.

And it is thanks to her that today, in the same circumstances as she was on the day she received her death sentence—sixteen years old, reaping day, better off than most in Twelve—I stand beneath her photo on the mantle. She's fifteen, staring off into the distance. Maysilee looks just like me, with her full face, blue eyes, and brown-blonde hair. I've stared at this photo since I was three years old. Everything about it is familiar to me, or so I think.

I take the photo down from the mantle and run my fingers over the ornately carved gilded frame. Then, seized by an impulse, I open the back and take out the photo.

It drops onto the floor, and I gasp, thinking it's going to fall into shreds, seeing as it's 25 years old. It lands at my feet upside down, and on the back is something I never noticed before: an old note.

It looks like my mother's handwriting, but it isn't. It's a message from my aunt, in faded black ink:

Maybelle:

Am writing this from the train. They wouldn't let me take two tokens along, so I'm keeping the pin and sending back my photo.

Don't lose hope. Keep going after I'm gone. I'll try really hard to win, I really do. Thanks for the pin. And thanks for being a great twin sister all these years.

With love,
Maysilee

I sink down to my knees by the photo, unable to stop re-reading the message. This must have been the last thing she ever said to her sister. My mother. Clearly my mother couldn't keep hope and keep going on. And obviously my aunt didn't win, although it was a District Twelve victory. Haymitch Abernathy, our only living victor. I have always wondered, did he kill my aunt?

Mrs. Cartwright, the woman who runs the shoe shop, told me once that my aunt's body was covered in skewer marks when it returned. She wouldn't say anything else about it. Her daughter Delly is one of the nicest people I know, but even she couldn't help me when I began crying, wondering if Haymitch had used a trident to kill Maysilee.

I know I shouldn't hold it against him. There's the possibility he didn't. And even if he did, it was the Hunger Games. I've seen people win by uglier means than murdering their own district partner.

And anyway, I don't want to dwell on it. I carefully place the photo back in the frame and set it back on the mantle.

It's almost dawn, but nobody is awake. Most people aren't in the district yet, anyway. It's reaping day, and the only thing worse than that is a long one. But this morning, I can't help waking up early to stare at Maysilee's photo.

I head to the kitchen to have breakfast. Few things are better in District 12 than waking up early. Even on reaping day. I fix myself a breakfast of toast and fried eggs. Not much for a last meal at home, but it's simple. Tastes like District 12.

After breakfast, I tiptoe back to my room and open my curtains. I stare out my big window for the next few hours, watching the sun rise. I decide to skip lunch, deciding I'll eat to celebrate after the reaping. Not that I'm not going to be chosen… it's just that the odds are most likely in my favor today. I have five slips in, not needing to take out tesserae.

By now it's a quarter past one. I get up, stiff from sitting on my bed for so long. By this point, most households across the town and the Seam are full with parents calling for their children to get dressed for the reaping. But mine is still silent. Mother has her headaches confining her to bed and Father is probably awake, but busy with running District 12. I brush my hair and fix it up with a pink ribbon, and then dress in a fancy white gown. Then I see the mockingjay pin, sitting up on top of my dresser. I fix it onto my dress. Why not? At least I'll have a piece of my aunt with me.

A knock at the door startles me. I fly downstairs and open the back door, worrying it's Peacekeepers. But it isn't. It's just my friend Katniss Everdeen, along with a boy two years older. Gale. They have strawberries with them, and I understand. My father is mostly a distant man, though not cruel, but strawberries are his weakness.

Gale looks at me in my reaping clothes. "Pretty dress," he says shortly.

Is he being sarcastic? I just smile. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

"You won't be going to the Capitol. What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."

I glare at him. It isn't my fault that 74 years ago, the Capitol set up the Hunger Games, along with the reaping system, designed to spare the rich and target the poor, with the two-faced gift of tesserae. That's what Mother called it once, when she was out of bed. The two-faced gift of tesserae.

Katniss comes to my defense. "That's not her fault."

Gale shrugs. "No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is."

I pass the money for the strawberries. "Good luck, Katniss."

"You too," she nods, and I close the door.

I take the strawberries and set them outside my father's study. "Happy Reaping Day," I whisper to him. He turns and smiles, then waves me away. "Go to the square. I have to help your mother," he whispers back.

I take one final look at myself in the mirror, secure my pin, and then head to the square. Many people look nervous or downright terrified. I let it all wash past me, just as my mother shuts out the world. I'm not one to panic or cry. I know my mother cries a lot, but she does it in her room and I never hear her.

The entire ceremony brushes past me. I don't listen to Father reciting the tedious story of how Panem came to be or Haymitch Abernathy embracing Effie Trinket or anything else. I pay attention, though, when Effie hoots, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the girls' names, pulling out one. Even with how calm I always am, my heart is pounding. It continues to pound as she crosses back to the podium and unfolds the slip. I'm hoping so much that it's not me or anyone else I love.

Effie calls out in her clear, resplendent voice, "Primrose Everdeen!"