The morning of the Reaping dawns bright and clear. I roll over in my bed, trying in vain to get a bit more sleep. I never sleep much before the Reaping. No one does, I guess.

I can hear my parents talking softly downstairs, for once not demanding that I get up. Our Reaping is held at ten o'clock, enough time for getting some extra sleep, but not enough to do anything productive. Not enough time to do anything but worry.

At last, when the sunlight streaming through my window becomes too bright to ignore, I leave the warmth of my bed and stumble over to my closet. Reaching into it, I pull out my only dress. It's bright red, nearly the same shade as my hair, with small yellow buttons in the shape of suns down the front. Mother gave it to me when I was twelve, and I've worn it on every Reaping day.

My parents are waiting for me downstairs, in the tiny kitchen. My father has cooked breakfast for the three of us, a fantastic meal of eggs and bread and cheese, but I can hardly eat. Neither of my parents eat much either. They look stressed – they are stressed, I correct myself – and who wouldn't be? But the odds are in my favour, as much as they'll ever be. No tesserae for me; my parents earn enough between them to keep us fed, most of the time. My name is in only four times this year, less than most of the others in my school.

Breakfast passes in silence. I walk back upstairs, trying to delay the inevitable parting as much as I can. I brush my long red hair until it falls sleekly over my shoulders, even though I know it will get messed up in the wind before long. Finally, I slip back downstairs.

My mother hugs me, then steps back to examine me before straightening my dress. "You look beautiful, dear."

"We'll meet you outside the square afterwards." My father's voice is firm, commanding. As if saying the words will keep me safe, keep me from the Capitol.

My mother glances nervously at the clock. "We'll be in Square Three, watching."

I nod, even though I knew that already. All the possible Tributes in District 5 will be in Square One, the central square, for the Reaping, while their families and the rest of the district are assigned to various other squares to watch the ceremony.

I pause before I leave, knowing that I should say something to them. But what do you say when you don't know if tonight will see you marked for death, or free, at least for another year?

Not something emotional. I'm not good at that. "I – I'll see you after the Reaping, then."

My mother hugs me again and kisses me gently on the cheek. "We love you, dear."

Their smiles - still worried - are what I think of as I head through the narrow streets of District 5.

District 5 is essentially one big city. Power is what we produce - for the Capitol, ourselves, and other Districts. Our houses are small, squashed together apartments, their roofs covered with solar panels. The streets are level, uniform, set out in a grid. Below the streets lie tunnels, filled with cables.

Identical streets, identical houses. Easy to get lost in.

Not for me. As I walk towards Square One, my eyes flicker over the buildings. I make a game of it, spotting differences, picking up minor changes. A new coat of paint, flowers in a window, the remnants of graffiti.

It's an old habit, hard to break, but at times like this it provides a welcome distraction.

Ropes are strung between the rooftops, the first stage of a plan to put solar panels over the streets. They've been there for years, linking the rooftops together, but no solar panels have joined them yet. Occasionally families use them to hang up washing – when the Peacekeepers aren't watching too closely.

As I get closer to Square One, I enter the Hub. The buildings here are taller, sturdier. It becomes harder to distinguish between them - my only clues are a strip of paint torn away, an open window, a stray ribbon caught in a fence. The Hub is where the power is 'collected', for lack of a better term; all of it organised, logged, and sorted, before being sent where it is needed. It's the nexus of District 5, a collection of buildings where the best of us work. My teachers already say that I will be there some day.

I turn the corner, and Square One comes into view. It looks like it has for the past three years - blank, grey, impersonal. The Justice Building sits, dark and imposing, on the far side of the square. A stage has been set up in front of it, with chairs, microphones and the bowls from which the Tributes' names will be drawn.

After I've been registered, I join the rest of the fifteen-year-old girls near the centre of Square One. I know some of them from my school, by sight if not by name, but I don't talk to them. Instead I choose to glance around the square, taking in the faces around me. Many look scared – the youngest, the ones for whom this is their first Reaping, and the oldest as well, those who will be free after this year. Many more have a careful blank face which I recognise well – it's the same face as I'm wearing.

Silence falls as a man walks onto the stage. Humar Greft. He's been the District 5 announcer, chaperone, or whatever it is, for the last seven years. He's been a recurring feature in my nightmares for the past seven years as well. He smiles, his signature huge, fake, Capitol smile, smooths down his dark blue suit and begins to speak.

His voice is strangely high for a man, and combined with his Capitol accent, should be ridiculous. And it is, if you choose to forget that he could hold your future in his hands.

I listen to him speak, the same well-worn words that he has spoken for the last seven years. The welcome, the reminder of the rules, all the same. I stare at the other figures on the stage as the now-familiar lines of the Treaty are read. The Head Mayor of District 5 is seated at the back of the stage, along with two others – the mentors for this year, past Victors of the Games. I can't recognise them from where I am standing. I fidget as Humar continues talking, my nervousness increasing with every passing minute.

At last, the actual Reaping. You shouldn't be glad about this, I tell myself, but I am. I'm eager for Humar to announce the Tribute and to get this finished, wanting to go back to my normal life, to try to forget about the Games for another year.

"Ladies first!" Humar proclaims, the same as all the other years, dipping his hand into the huge bowl. I hold my breath as he fishes around. He pulls out a piece of paper and unfolds it, smiling as he announces the name.

"Solaire Orien!"

My name.

A/N: This is my first multi-chapter fic, yay! Yes, I made up Foxface's name. And what I thought District 5 would be like. Feel free to point out any dodgy/awkward grammar/spelling – I check as much as I can, but I still miss things.

Thanks to all who reviewed my first fanfic – you guys rock!

Edit: Everything is in present tense now!