They say your first Hunger Games is the worst.

I'm not a tribute, though some people say they're luckier than we are because they only have to go through the Hunger Games once. If we are considered desirable as servants, we will have to serve tributes for dozens of Games over dozens of years.

I am an Avox. Six months ago, the Head Peacekeeper in my district, Eleven, decided I'd become too much of a problem for him, that I'd publicly spoken out against the Capitol one too many times. I'd been whisked away on a train without the opportunity to even say goodbye to the loved ones I'd left behind. I could only imagine the devastated looks of my little brother, of my father, of my best friend Juniper.

When my train arrived at the Capitol, I was brought to doctors took away my tongue and, with it, my ability to speak. I was terrified. I thought they were going to execute me as a traitor, but this seemed like an even worse fate. I learned about the Avoxes, a group to which I now belonged, a group that spent the remainder of their lives serving rich Capitolites while families like mine starved in the districts. I spent the first several months serving people in a hotel-it was a big building where Capitol people liked to stay when they weren't staying at their homes. I made a couple friends among the older Avoxes, and even learned some of the hand signals they used to communicate.

I'd grown almost used to my new life when I was upheaved again, this time to be brought to the tributes' training center. During Hunger Games season, I was informed, I would work here, serving tributes while they prepared for the Games and, after that, their mentors and sponsors.

This was why I was sitting with the other Avoxes crowded around a television in the common room in our servants' quarters. The reaping was more than just mandatory viewing for us. This was the first time we'd see the faces of the tributes we would serve for weeks until they were sent off to die.

Each of us had been assigned a district weeks in advance. We would take care of all of the needs of the tributes, mentors, and escort for our district. We would do anything they asked us to do that we were allowed to do, and we would do it well. To dissatisfy your guests for the season was to be punished.

I was assigned to District Twelve, which meant that I would have to wait until the very last reaping to see the tributes I would serve. I'd hoped to be assigned to Eleven to see people I could relate to more, but perhaps it was better this way. After all, both tributes were likely to die-mine even more so, since they were from Twelve, and Twelve very rarely hailed a victor.

I sit on the couch with the others to watch the reapings, anxiously awaiting District Twelve's. I only half pay attention as the other Avoxes, those that have done this before, analyze the new tributes they will be serving. Some are trying to predict who will have a shot at winning, but others are just watching and hoping that their tributes will not be too unfairly demanding. Usually only the Career tributes are any trouble, I'm told.

Afternoon arrives, and with it comes the District Twelve reaping. I don't pay much attention to the usual procedures that every district goes through-the speech about the rebellion and why we have the Hunger Games, the introductions from past victors. I notice, though, that District Twelve only has one surviving victor to mentor. His name is Haymitch Abernathy, and he appears heavily intoxicated. I will have to serve him as well as the tributes.

Finally, a woman dressed in a garish amount of pink takes the stage and introduces herself. Effie Trinket. She seems less than pleased that she was assigned as the escort for Twelve, the least desirable of the districts. My home District, Eleven, has a poverty level second only to Twelve.

As the Capitol camera scans the crowd, I look at all of the malnourished children that could not possibly stand a chance in the Hunger Games, and I think, Please, just let it be someone who has a chance.

In the ridiculous Capitol accent I've grown used to being ordered around by, Effie Trinket announces, "Ladies first!" and strides over to the girls' reaping bowl. There are many, many slips of paper in it. Without much concern, she plucks a slip of paper from the bowl and goes back to the microphone to announce the name. "Madge Undersee!"

There is a collective gasp from the crowd, and I watch as it parts for a small blond girl in a fancy lavender dress that appears to be worth more than my entire family could earn in one year. She's about sixteen or seventeen, and I find myself relieved that she is not one of the skin-and-bones twelve-year-olds that crowd the square. To her credit, she doesn't cry as she takes the stage, but she looks stricken.

The mayor, seated at the right of the stage, looks on the verge of tears. I'm confused for a moment before I remember it was mentioned that his name is Undersee as well. It must be his daughter. I think about how slim the chances were that a mayor's daughter, who would have the minimum amount of paper slips possible with her name in the bowl, would be reaped. I suppose this proves that no one is safe from the reaping.

As the crowd recovers from the shock, Effie Trinket walks over to the boys' reaping bowl. She digs her hand around in it a little, then pulls out a slip of paper and walks back to the center of the stage again. "Gale Hawthorne!"

This time there is loud crying almost immediately. It sounds like it is coming from a small child from the spectators' section. A sibling, probably. A strong-looking young man makes his way to the stage. He must be eighteen. In his worn clothes that are gray with the coal dust that appears to stick to much of Twelve, he appears to be from the poorest section. He probably had his name in dozens of times for the tesserae his family must have desperately needed. He is lean, but not as thin as many of the others. He holds his chin high, looking defiant as he makes his way to the stage. Gale Hawthorne, I think. He looks like he could actually have a chance at winning.

The newly reaped tributes exchange glances, and it appears as if they know each other. The girl, Madge, allows her fear to show now, but the boy, Gale, has a stony, unreadable expression.

They shake hands, followed by mandatory applause from the crowd, and are led off the stage by Peacekeepers as the ceremony ends. The seal of Panem appears on the screen, and then it goes black. There will be a review of the tributes who were reaped today on television later for the Capitol citizens, but now we must get back to work preparing the quarters for our guests, who will be boarding trains soon.

As we all get up to leave, my friend and fellow Avox Shay glances at me. She's probably five or so years older than me, with dark curly hair and bright blue eyes. She is beautiful, really, and smart, but it does not matter to the Capitol people who order us around. To them, we are less than the dirt on the bottom of their bright-colored shoes.

Shay raises her eyebrows at me. What do you think?

I shrug in response. I am not feeling very talkative right now, not after seeing the faces of the tributes I will spend weeks serving before they are sent off to die.

I leave the room, headed to District Twelve's floor to make the last beds that Madge Undersee and Gale Hawthorne will ever sleep in before they are sent into the Hunger Games.