Before my eyes have even cracked open, the familiar scent creeps into my nostrils.
Bread. Warm, baking, delicious bread. Bread my family slaves over the hot oven to bake every day, yet never gets to taste.
A gaping yawn distorts my features. I can just see the soft gray light that precedes sunrise crawling across my ceiling and throwing soft shadows across the far wall.
Reaping day has arrived at last.
My stomach drops. It's best not to think about that. There's no use. There's no use torturing myself with thoughts of the coming ceremony. I've learned that well over the past 4 years.
I can hear my brothers stirring in the next room. Owning a bakery and having to run it day after day has reset my family's natural clock over the years. Now, when the sun wakes up, so do we.
Duty calls.
I get up and slowly get dressed, donning the soft white apron I scrub clean every night after we've closed up shop. My large hands brush out the wrinkles and I notice the warmth already creeping into the air. This doesn't sit right with me, somehow. It should be cold. Chilling. There's no room for warmth on a day like this.
Pushing these thoughts away yet again, I tromp downstairs, inhaling the sweet bread scent. My father working tirelessly in the kitchen is a familiar sight. I remember being younger, my blond hair falling into my eyes, toddling into the kitchen to be met with the same scene. He would always stop what he was doing and grin, picking me up in his burly arms as he showed me the bread cooling on the countertops.
But now he never stops. Money is tighter and so every second in the kitchen counts.
Today, I find him peering into the oven, back bent and eyes squinting with age. He mentally records the bread's progress before straightening up and wiping away the sheen of sweat on his brown that the flames have caused. Years of being in this business has leant him broad, strong shoulders and muscled arms. His hands are curled and calloused from long ago burns. We share the same build, though most say I've inherited my mother's softer features.
I step forward into the kitchen and cough. A few candles sit flickering on the table in the center of the room. Electricity must be out again.
My father jerks in my direction. He's always jumpy on Reaping day.
"Oh, Peeta." His eyes are wide and concerned. "You're out of bed."
We stare awkwardly at one another. My mother, at the sound of his voice, pauses by the door leading to the shop front where's she's already stocking the shelves. At the sight of me she quickly turns and disappears from sight.
"I thought I told you to sleep in last night?"
My attention jerks back to my father. "Ah, yeah, I know. But I couldn't sleep," I give a wry grin and a rather convincing laugh in an effort to diffuse the tension. I'm always the peace keeper in the family. My father over worries on Reaping day, and I reassure him and act as if nothing's wrong. My mother has one of her angry fits, and I take the brunt of it. My brothers do something wrong, and I take the blame. It's just how things are.
"Are your brothers up?"
As if in response, there comes a loud thump from upstairs. One of them fell out of bed, most likely.
I want to get busy before they come downstairs. My brothers have the same sandy blond hair as myself and mother, and the same build all the men in our family seem to inherit. But that's where the resemblance stops. Both of them seem to have taken after my mother in attitude, and it typically takes all my patience just to stay in the same room with them.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask brightly. My voice sounds overly high.
He directs me to the countertop next to him, where the ingredients for our cheese buns are already laid out. I immediately throw myself into the work, doing anything to put the thought of later out of my mind.
Finally, hours later, I have several batches complete. The sun is high in the sky and just as I suspected, it's a hot day. I'm drenched in sweat.
"I think that's enough, son," my father says gruffly, surveying the freshly baked goods I've just pulled out. All I need is enough to fill our small cart out back. I'll be dragging it out to the Hob today.
Every year on the day of the Reaping, most of the businesses close early. Our bakery is right in the main square, so we have to close well in advance of the ceremony. But money is tight so we can't afford such a loss in sales. This is where I come in. Being the oldest, it's my responsibility to drag a cart full of our breads to the Hob, a place we'd never normally go.
I'm loading up the cart just outside the back door when someone coughs. I start and look up, only to be met with the eyes of him. Gale Hawthorne. He's holding a dead squirrel by the tail.
"Hi," he says, gazing absently past me and through the door. "Is your father in?"
I know what he wants. My father has a soft spot for squirrel meat that I'll never understand, and Gale knows this. So he comes with one of the furry creatures in hand and trades it for fresh bread. He never uses the front door though. My mother's temper is well known in District 12, even amongst those in the Seam.
"I'll get him." I barely spare him a glance and turn to get inside as quickly as possible. Will he share the bread with her? Will they eat it out in the woods where they always go together, and sit and talk and laugh?
She's so beautiful when she laughs.
My insides burn with jealousy. I need to stop this.
"Gale's here," I tell my father before grabbing the last batch of bread and bringing it back out to the cart. Balancing it carefully so as not to squish the others, I grab hold of the handles and wheel the cart around Gale and across the square, not sparing him a second glance.
The Hob is a ways away. It's near the Seam, which is on the outskirts of District 12. But after a good 15 minutes of walking, the warehouse comes into view. I can already see people bustling in and out, despite the early hour. I feel strange walking in, so I keep my eyes trained on the cart, avoiding eye contact with any who pass.
This is technically a black market. But the Peacekeepers could hardly care, considering they themselves make full use of it. I set up a makeshift stand and try to make the goods look appealing. And then I sit back and wait.
It's a bit past noon and all the bread is nearly gone when I see her.
Katniss. Her long dark hair is usually in a braid, but it seems like she's tucked it up into her cap today. She's wearing her hunting jacket and boots and carrying an armful of game. I see Gale bringing up the rear and know I was right. They've just come from the woods.
I stare morosely after Katniss for the next 10 minutes or so as she fleets from booth to booth. She seems to know everyone here. Everyone smiles and seems so pleased to see her. But I shrink back and avert my eyes as she walks past.
This is just how things are. It's how they've always been.
I have to leave. The cart's empty and the Reaping is ever approaching. The trip back to my home is much faster, due to the empty cart bouncing along the dirt road behind me. I leave it by the back door and bound up to my room, getting dressed in my best shirt and pants. Nervousy makes me jumpy. It makes me quick as well. I'm ready within minutes and find myself pacing for the next hour.
But then it's time.
I step out the front door with my brothers in tow. The square is already alive with people. I can see the camera crews getting ready on the rooftops, their lenses glinting ominously. I sign in before shuffling towards where I should be, a roped off section on the right for 16 year old boys. I can see my father scanning the crowd from the side, his forehead wrinkled in worry. My mother seems unconcerned.
The temporary stage stands large and imposing at the head of the square. Three chairs sit vacated behind a podium and between the two round Reaping balls. Within moments Mayor Undersee and District 12's escort, Effie Trinket, take the stage and seat themselves. Effie looks positively giddy as she takes in the growing crowd. She wears a pink wig and a light green suit, and her impish grin knows no bounds.
The clock strikes two and immediately Mayor Undersee approaches the podium and jumps into his annual speech. The history of Panem spills from his mouth. I barely hear it though, as I'm doing my best to hold down the small lunch I ate before coming here.
"I'm only in 5 times." I remind myself softly, so no one else will hear. "Keep it together."
But that's a difficult thing to do. We all know very well that by nightfall today one unfortunate girl and one unfortunate boy will have been chosen and on their way to the Capitol. And odds are, neither will return. The Hunger Games aren't known for having a high survival rate.
We watch them die, year after year. And that's how the Capitol likes it.
"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," Mayor Undersee intones grimly.
Just as he is reading off the past District 12 victors (a very short list, considering we've only ever had two), Haymitch Abernathy stumbles onto the stage, yelling gibberish at the top of his lungs. He's an older man and a notorious drunk. And he's arrived just in time.
Mayor Undersee frantically tries to distract from the embarrassment that is Haymitch, who has thrown himself into one of the chairs behind the podium.
Effie Trinket steps forward. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
My eyes are glued to the reaping balls. Only five.
"Ladies first!" Her annoying trill jabs through my consciousness and I glance over at the girls, roped off to our left. Some of them look exactly how I feel. Like they're going to be sick.
She plunges her hand into the reaping ball, twisting it around wildly as if trying to create some sort of dramatic effect.
Not Katniss. It's all I want. Not Katniss. It can't be Katniss. I don't want to watch her die. Not Katniss.
She totters back to the podium on her dramatic pink heels. She smooths the paper out in front of her.
"Primrose Everdeen!