To look at me, you wouldn't know that there are powerful feelings brewing beneath the surface. My stony expression belies what I'm really thinking, and I think that it's my best defense. Because I live in a place where your thoughts are dangerous, and your words can cost your life. It's a world where you can't speak up or act out to save your children, because that's considered a rebellious act. In Panem, where the sacrifice of children is treated like a game, powerful feelings are traitorous. At least, this is only true within the limits of the district.
So that's why I'm slipping under the electric fences around District Twelve at 3 o'clock in the morning. The full, luminous moon is hanging low in the sky, giving the Meadow an eerie quality. Falling shadows make the tall grasses seem almost ominous, but at this point, I'm so used to the way the outskirts of the district look that I barely notice. The woods lie just beyond this stretch. It's the only place where I can just let loose, say whatever I want to say, scream. The Capitol has no control over me here, because they don't know that I've left their boundaries in the first place.
The fences are shoddy—there are more weak spots than I can count, and the district rarely runs an electric current through them. I think that it's more of a symbolic warning to the people of District Twelve: "Step outside these lines and you're dead." Except that you're not…only if you're brave enough to venture away from the comforts of home.
I let out a short laugh to myself at that thought. It's laughable, calling Twelve a home. We live in absolute squalor. My family lives at the edge of the district, in one of the squat houses that belongs to what we call the Seam. It's the poorest section of the district, but it's not as if the merchant class lives a significantly better life. No, we all starve together, just struggling to make it between meals. And we all try to clean away the coal dust that coats our skin and our clothes and our homes. It's not a life. It's an existence.
I turned to hunting illegally years ago after my father died in a mining accident, because I couldn't just let my mother flounder. I couldn't watch her struggle to feed her three kids all while waiting to deliver a fourth. Her despair was painful to me, but the worst was knowing that the Capitol refused to compensate her further for her loss. I knew that a family of five could not survive on the tessarae handouts I was taking out each month—a month's meager ration of grain and oil. So the only logical thing to do was to step up as the eldest son and fight for our survival.
I trod through the thick grassy patches, always keeping my eyes on the distant woods. The moonlight splays across the Meadow, drenching the land in silver. It makes the woods look even more inviting, because whenever I turn back towards the district, it's pitch black. A grim sight on the morning of the reaping.
At eighteen years old, I'm at the cusp of adulthood. So that means it's my last reaping. I grit my teeth as I walk, clenching my hands into fists. Yes, that means that I won't have to worry about being picked as a tribute for the Hunger Games next year. But I have other people to worry about still. My brothers, Vick and Rory. And my sister Posy. How many more years do I have to deal with this? The thought of my siblings going into the arena, facing certain death on national television, is just too much to bear. I'd rather face it myself than see them suffer.
And, as much as I hate to admit it to myself, I'm worried about someone else. I've been pushing it down inside of me for a long time, but this morning, I feel my anxiety rising. She's sixteen, so she could so easily get reaped. And I'd be powerless to stop it.
That's the root of the problem. I could almost deal with the poverty and the suffering that we endure here in District Twelve, in Panem, if we weren't under the Capitol's thumb. More than anything else, I hate not having power. I hate having to accept the Hunger Games, having to keep my mouth shut when I really feel like screaming, having to watch terrible things happen and know that there's nothing I can do to stop it.
Well, I can at least rebel in my own small way. A tight-lipped smile works its way across my face as I come into the woods. Slinging my game bag over my shoulder, I pad quietly over to the hollow tree trunk where Katniss stashes her bow and arrows. Normally, I'd set my snares, but waiting for easy prey takes too long, and I'd rather take out my frustrations with a bow. There's something about the sound that the bowstring makes as the arrow whizzes through the air that I can't get enough of. It breaks the deep silence in the air for just a moment, vibrating back and forth, humming in low tones, before it all but stops.
My visibility's poor in this light, but the shadows are just starting to lift, and the light of dawn starts pouring through the treetops. Loading the bow, I take a few silent steps forward, treading lightly. I don't want to scare the game away, and I almost never do. Katniss says it's my greatest asset as a hunter—I'm so careful with my footsteps that I can practically creep up on deer without chasing them away. This skill has come with years of practice, but I still think that I could stand to improve. After all, my shots are poor.
Rustling in the bushes catches my attention. Instinctively, I cock my head to the right, listening intently and not daring to breathe. Any slight sound or provocation is enough to send game away. I can't take that chance today. Patiently, I stand still and wait for the creature to reveal itself. Cautiously, a fat rabbit ventures out into the open. I adopt my hunter's stance, drawing my right arm back, pausing as the arrow's fletching reaches my eye. I take aim, and the arrow flies right into the rabbit's brain. I look on with satisfaction as it twitches and falls still. It's not a great shot, but it is meat, and I know people in the district who would pay good money for a fresh rabbit.
I slip my kill into the game bag, feeling confident enough to keep hunting. I've never been great at taking down large game like deer, but I'm pretty good at shooting smaller, flightier animals. Rabbits, squirrels, birds. It's not hard to predict how they'll react to a predator: they'll dart away, take flight in frenzy. But they're not very smart, and they don't move away far enough to lose me. I know how to set traps, or how to use twitch-up snares so that I can discourage larger game from picking away at the game I've already trapped. Nobody taught me these skills. I just figured it out on my own somehow, maybe because I knew that I needed this to survive.
Morning light seeps through the treetops just as I take my last shot. I've managed to take out a couple of rabbits and a squirrel. Wiping sweat from my brow, I look to the sky, judging that it's probably about six. It leaves me enough time to head back to the district, trade what little game I have at the Hob, before turning around to meet Katniss here later this morning. And then the reaping's in the square at two o'clock. The thought makes me grimace, but I know that I don't have much time to waste.
It's a decent walk from the woods to the Hob, which is our black market. It cropped up in an abandoned coal factory years ago, and it's grown ever since. Technically, I shouldn't be out here or selling game at all. But the law enforcers buy game, too. We make a point of selling to Peacekeepers, because they can afford to spend money on it. I'm hoping that the Hob will be bustling by the time I get there. I need some money to spend.
Luckily, all the proprietors of the stands are opening up for business just as I walk in. Over the last few years, the operation has grown and expanded. Ever since that mining accident, people have been desperate for cheaper goods. Without a head of the household, without a family breadwinner, it's been harder than ever to get by. The merchants sell luxury items in the marketplace, things that people like us from the Seam can ill afford.
Greasy Sae, a haggard old woman who buys my game to make hearty soups, sees me coming in with my game bag and beckons for me, a wide toothless grin crossing her face. "Got anything good for me today, Mr. Hawthorne?" she calls out over the din of the traders.
I hitch the bag up over my shoulder and make my way through the crowd towards her stall. "A couple of rabbits," I say lightly, resting the bag on the countertop. Greasy Sae raises an eyebrow at me, and reaches out to touch the bulge with spindly fingers. "They're a decent size." I give her a quick smile, which is rare for me when I'm haggling.
This makes her laugh, which quickly lapses into a coughing fit. Greasy Sae lifts a hand apologetically before thrusting her face into the crook of her arm. Once the spell subsides, she looks at me doubtfully. "And you're the one who shot them…?"
"Yes, ma'am." I watch Greasy Sae's face contort as she tries to hold back her laughter. "I know what you're thinking. I'm not a great shot, but these aren't too bad. There are not a lot of holes." I hold out my hands to her helplessly. "It's just meat, right?"
Every time I come to Greasy Sae with game, we go through the same charade. She always ends up buying what I offer her, unless it's so ridden with holes and knife marks that she can't use it. But this woman makes use of whatever meat you give her. One time, Katniss and I brought down wild dog, and she put that in a stew. So I know she'll take a few rabbits, and she'll give me a generous price. But for now, she pantomimes reluctance. Sighing dramatically, she says, "Let me see if I can take this off your hands." I catch her wink as I reach into the bag.
She examines the game critically for a few seconds before setting it down behind the counter. "All right, Gale. We have a deal." Greasy Sae fishes around for money, pressing the coins into my empty hand. "In the meantime, work on your shooting." She gives me another smile, and I shrug.
"Will do," I say. "And thank you. I'll probably be back later with Katniss."
Her eyes light up when I mention this. "Well, then. I guess I can count on some first-class game next time around." Greasy Sae lets out another laugh before waving me off. I set out, money in hand and determination written on my brow.
Even though we can rarely afford the goods that the merchants sell, sometimes Katniss and I manage to trade our game with the shop owners in exchange for food or materials—linens, thread, soap. Sometimes they pay, but we prefer to trade if we can. Over the years, we've learned which shop keepers to sell to, and we keep track of what they prefer. Right now, I have a squirrel in my game bag, and I know that the baker has a taste for them. It's early enough that his wife probably won't be up. We've had run-ins with her before, and she's not very pleasant to trade with.
The Mellark Bakery's in the center of town, so it can be risky to trade there out in the open. The Peacekeepers do buy from us, but even so, it's safer to go around the back entrance, just in case there is a crackdown. I sneak around the side of the bakery and cautiously rap on the door with my knuckles. Then I take a step back, just in case the baker's wife is the one to answer.
I'm relieved when the baker comes to the door instead. He's a tall, wide man, with wrinkles and burns deep-set in his face. Whenever Katniss is with me, he clams up. The man is pretty soft-spoken, but for some reason, on days like this, he's willing to carry on a conversation with me. I raise my hand in greeting when he opens the door. Automatically I inhale the scent of fresh-baked bread. It makes my mouth water, but I force myself to keep my cool, even though my stomach is feeling hollow.
"Good morning," he says warmly, and he sticks out his hand to shake. I return the gesture, feeling his firm grip and his calloused hands.
"Same to you," I say. I start to reach for my bag, ready to proffer a squirrel, but then I remember that I have spare change in my pocket. I'm so hungry that I can't think of anything else but a fresh loaf of bread. Instead of starting off with a trade, I open my mouth and say, "I was just wondering if I could buy some bread." I feel a surge of pride when I finger the loose coins in my pocket. I rarely have enough to spare on something as luxurious as bakery bread.
The baker looks at me in surprise, apparently not expecting to be making a sale instead of a trade. But he nods anyway. "There are a few loaves coming out of the ovens in a couple of minutes. If you don't mind waiting here…" he offers, faltering. We're not used to this routine. I come here to sell my game, not buy from him. But I'm weak today.
"Not a problem," I say quickly. "I have time to spare." He gives me a curt nod, and a silence falls. The baker's sparse with words, so I have to prod him to keep up a conversation. "So, what time do you close shop today?"
His face falls. "About noon. They'll be setting up the square for the reaping around then. There's no way that anyone could get through that mess to come to the bakery." He shrugs, but then he gives me a solemn look. "You nervous about this afternoon, son?"
Now it's my turn to fall silent. Above all else, the Hunger Games and the reaping are my least favorite things to talk about. The prospect of being chosen is all too real. And I know that I can't leave my family behind if I am picked. "Not really," I lie, for the sake of my own pride. "It's my last year of eligibility, so if I get through this year, I'm in the clear."
The baker gives me a look of understanding. "My two older sons were nervous wrecks about it during their last reapings. But they made it through just fine."
"The thing is, my name's in there a lot," I admit quietly, bowing my head, and the baker's forehead creases. "But whatever happens, I guess it'll be for the best. If I'm drawn, it's because I have the most entries, so that's better than someone being drawn that doesn't have more than a few entries." Then I grimace. "I'm not sure what to expect."
Unexpectedly, he reaches out and rests his hand over my shoulder, giving me a warm, reassuring smile. I startle at his touch, but I don't move away. "I'm sure you'll do fine, son," he says. He sounds completely genuine, and it's foreign to me. It's been five years since I've had a father figure of any sort, and this gesture is the closest I've gotten to that.
"Thanks," I say warily, unsure of how to react to this. After a moment, I give him a smile in return; grateful for the way he's treating me. So often I've been kicked around, just because I was a kid from the Seam, the son of a miner. But right now, the baker is treating me like one of his sons, and it's a welcome gesture.
Just as the man's about to continue, I glance over his shoulder and see a pair of narrowed blue eyes staring back at me. It's his youngest son. Peeta, I think. The kid's a year or two behind me in school, but I don't talk to him because he's one of the merchant kids and he sticks with that crowd. But I acknowledge him all the same, clearing my throat and nodding at him. The baker turns around to regard his son standing behind him, peeling his hand off my shoulder. Peeta wordlessly hands a loaf of bread to his father, avoiding my eyes completely as he steps into the light. Then he disappears back into the shadows, and the baker holds the loaf out to me.
I start to dig for a spare coin, but the baker stops me, shaking his head. I take it out and show it to him, yet he still refuses. "No, no. I don't want that."
Helplessly, I reach into my game bag. "At least let me trade you," I offer, poking around until I surface with the squirrel. The baker's eyes lock on it, and he gives me a smile. I know that he'll make this trade gladly, even though it's kind of unfair. I get fresh bread, while he gets a mutilated squirrel. Even so, he takes it from me, and I accept the loaf, cradling it in my arms. I don't even mind the searing heat against my skin.
"That for your family?" he asks kindly. I look up into his weathered face and I just nod, not really wanting to divulge the truth.
"Something like that," I say, thinking of Katniss as I do. Then I turn to leave, glancing back over my shoulder at the generous baker, who lifts a hand to wave at me. It's funny, but I notice that his son is still standing behind him, staring me down. I meet his eyes, but this time, he doesn't shy away from my glance. I nod, and set off for the woods. There's not much time left to spare.