DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games, Rue, or Katniss. They all belong to the brilliant and beautiful Suzanne Collins, the best author in the world.

Watching carefully, I pull back my slingshot and let go. Down goes a single groosling, right into my tree. I imagine the happy faces that Leaf, Daisy, Iris, Choco, and Rose will have when the groosling's roasting over the fire. My stomach grumbles just thinking of it.

At least we'll have a good meal the day before the dreaded reaping. It's my first year in the glass ball and I've signed up for eight tesserae. Rose and Choco, the twins, say that they'll take some tesserae next year instead of me taking them all. I firmly refuse. No way am I giving my sisters any higher chance of entering the Games.

I get into my nicest dress, which isn't really that nice, just a plain brown piece of cloth that would be scorned in the Capitol, even in District 1, as hideous garbage. But I like it. It's a souvenir from my dead sister Reyna.

Reyna was killed in the Hunger Games three years ago. She was just thirteen and I miss her more than I'd miss living. I'll do anything to bring Reyna Oriole back.

I am shuffled into a roped-off section of twelve-year-olds. Choco and Rose have held on to me until here, but now they let go and drift off to my mother, watching me with little-disguised worry and fear.

I'll be fine, I mouth. I honestly believe it. After all, there are girls my age who had to pull out twelve tesserae. I'm fine.

Syphia Moon, the District 11 escort, trills up from the front, "Hello, everyone! Happy Hunger Games!"

Ugh. Her voice is just so annoying, like a high-pitched bee buzz. My God, how does the Capitol get its people to speak in such impossibly funny accents?

She smiles widely at all of us, not even noticing that no one smiles back. "All righty! Ladies first, hm?" she asks in that horribly – horribly – horribly hilarious buzz.

She reaches a heavily manicured hand into the glass ball. I feel an ominous breeze ruffle through the twelve-year-olds.

She takes out a small, white piece of paper. My heart feels like a small, energetic hamster. She carefully flattens it on her lap and reaches for the microphone. My heart is beating faster, and faster, and faster.

"A-hem. And our lady tribute is…

"Rue Oriole!"

I nearly faint.