When I wake up in the morning, I find the nerves haven't gone away. I don't know why I would expect any different; every year on this day is a cause for me to shrink underneath my heavy blanket cover and pretend I don't exist.

I know I shouldn't be scared. My name's in the glass bowl five times this Reaping, and so I won't be called. On any other day I like to think I would be happy to take the place of some other poor soul dragged up to her death, but truly, isn't everyone afraid?

I stare at a point in the distance, waking up, and looking over the ruffly white thing hooked to my door. It's been there since last night, and I can't stop staring. It's pretty, and it's a shame that it has to represent such a gruesome occasion as the Reaping. Dutifully, I slide out of bed and over to it, running my fingers over the softness. Not aiming to waste any time, I undress and slide it on, avoiding the mirrors. It'll make you nervous.

Pale shoes for the pale dress, and a brush through my angry, flaxen hair. I'm not out the door two seconds before I see my mother, a smile on her face more anxious than my entire body, there with a thick pink ribbon. I stop for her.

She holds out the ribbon, breathing, "Madge, I was just about to barge in. I thought this would look pretty on you,"

"Thank you, Mom," I muster a convincing smile and turn so she can work the bow into my hair. She promises that Dad will be downstairs in just a moment, and I should wait there for him, so I clop down the stairs in shoes a size too big and dawdle in the kitchen.

Knock, knock, knock. I'm startled at first by the sound at the back door, but it doesn't take me long to recognize the culprit as Katniss before I even open the door. As I head to open it, I swipe a small stack of coins from the counter; she's supposed to bring by strawberries today.

When I open the door I see not only Katniss and her pail of strawberries, but also Gale. Gale, a dark and Seam-hardened hunter, is Katniss' friend as well as I. He doesn't pretend to like me. His features tighten when he looks my way, and like a branch under pressure, I sometimes expect him to snap. Today, he is still stone cold. He scans me over while I try to keep my gaze on Katniss. His eyes grey like a storm when he says, "Pretty dress."

Now that I wasn't expecting. My eyes dart over to him quickly, narrowing. I purse my lips and offer a smile, uttering simply, "If I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

I can only hope he catches my sarcasm.

He looks down at my chest as his expression winds up further. It takes me a moment to realize that on my dress is pinned the Mockingjay, an heirloom from my mother and real gold. It doesn't help the situation.

"You won't be going to the Capitol," I can see his contained anger, and my face flushes. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."

"That's not her fault," insists Katniss.

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," spits Gale, fizzling. He looks exasperated, and he isn't looking at me anymore. I wish I could bring myself to apologize, but it wouldn't do any good. I wish Katniss good luck and we make our exchange, and I feel more rotten than I did upon waking.

If I could, I would offer Katniss and Gale my family's wealth. They have larger families and could use it more than I. There's nothing that I can do, really. As the time draws nearer I find myself thinking less of me and more of those who actually do have a chance of being drawn into our nation's death match. I pluck a strawberry from the pail and force it down my throat in a series of swallows.

As Mayor Undersee's daughter, it is partly my responsibility to be there early with the family before the crowds file in, like sheep to the slaughter, for the Reaping. I pluck lint off my father's pretty suit and even out the parts of his greying hair that are still on his head. We make our way out, and a few unready citizens watch us with envious contempt on our way. I do not blame them; I'd be jealous too.

My mother doesn't go. She doesn't go anywhere. Ever since her twin sister fell victim to the Games, she's been bedridden with painful headaches that are, in her words, like lightning. She's one of the few people exempt from attending. I've heard many horror stories of those who failed to show.

I focus on keeping my shoes on my feet and staring forward as we make our slow way to the Square. I feel my father's hand on my back a few times, and I am not sure if he is ushering or comforting.

"Hey, Madge," I hear him whisper to me, sensing my nerves. "Five entries. You are going to be just fine. One, two, three, four, five."

One, two, three, four, five. That simple, huh?

It's all a blur from then on, my father is pecked at by my me again before we have to separate, I watch the escort totter helplessly among working men who set up the grand display. My father, no, Mayor Undersee mutters the Reaping Speech to himself as he paces around the developing stage. He knows it by memory at this point. I watch from my spot, alone in the roped off sixteens.

Suddenly, I am surrounded. Nervous souls suffocate each other, standing alert for the most daunting day of the year. My mind recites the speech as Mayor Undersee does; he had me help him practice when I was small. I wish I could forget the brainwashing droll. By the time it's over, I'm almost glad to see Haymitch Abernathy step up drunk on the stage. He flails himself into the chair with a holler, offering some amusement before the mayor draws attention to Effie Trinket.

Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, is from the Capitol. This basically means that she looks as if a flower threw her up at all times. I can tell that past the clownish makeup, Effie is a very beautiful and kind woman, but she covers that well as she prances up to the microphone. She welcomes us cheerily, as if this event is a celebration, with a chipper, "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

I can barely understand her past the accent, but I remember how this goes. My eyes scan the crowd lazily, searching for Katniss. I catch her at some point ahead of me, and I keep my eyes on her as Effie chirps, "Ladies first!"

I trace her braid with my eyes, praying it's not her. She has so much more to lose, so much more. Please, please please.

That is when Effie Trinket calls Madge Undersee to the stage.