The snow is soft. The snow is pretty. The snow is safe. She told herself this over and over, wishing she could believe it. But she couldn't; even though she knew it was true. At least, this snow was soft, pretty, and safe.

Janalen Marxel fought the urge to run and hide. Probably she'd trip and fall anyway, and that would just make things worse. Her coordination has been horrible ever since she turned to the morphling.

She had a hard time remembering her age, or what district she lived in, or even her name, sometimes. But she knew that the snow was her enemy, even if she couldn't remember why all the time.

That's right, she thought. I am 32 years old. I am a victor from District 6. My name is Janalen Marxel. She closed her eyes tightly. Why can she never seem to remember that? She opened her eyes and looked at the syringe in her hand. She injected it into her arm and forgot again.

Days, sometimes weeks, passed in this way. She rode on a constant high, forgetting, but not even realizing she had forgotten anything. Then, suddenly, the high would leave and she would remember. Either remember that she had forgotten, even if she couldn't remember what, or remember that time in perfect, agonizing detail. How could she remember every detail from those weeks so many years ago, but forget even her own name?

The snow had come and gone. She didn't know how many weeks it had been, but she was anxious to escape again. She went to her medicine cabinet. It was such a nice house. Why am I here again? she asked herself. She couldn't quite bring it back to memory.

There was a knock at her door. Strange, because no one ever came to see her. She changed direction too suddenly for her legs to keep up, and she ended up sprawled on the kitchen floor. She lay there for what felt like a long time, but her judgment of time couldn't be trusted. She felt hands on her frail shoulders, pulling her to her feet.

She looked into a vaguely familiar face. She couldn't call up where she had seen this person before, but she did know that she knew them. The person's face was wet with tears.

"Jan," the person said quietly. "Do you know my name?" Janalen forced her eyes to look at the person's face in more detail. She still couldn't place it. She could tell that it was female, and her face was wet with tears.

"I'm your cousin, Yenia," the girl said sadly.

That did ring a faint bell. Janalen could almost remember something. Almost.

Yenia closed her eyes tightly, more tears spilling out of her eyes. When she opened her eyes, she immediately looked toward the television in Janalen's living room. It was on. Strange, thought Janalen. I don't remember turning it on.

Yenia looked at Janalen again. "I'm so sorry, Jan." The girl was sobbing now.

Janalen forced herself to speak to this strange girl, though speaking had become very difficult for her. "Why . . . you sorry?" she managed.

The girl looked up, startled. "Jan," she said quietly, as if she were a mouse about to flee. "They just announced the Quarter Quell. Don't you remember?"

If Janalen could remember how to laugh, she probably would have. "Can't . . . Remember."

Yenia started to cry again. "Each tribute this year is going to be a victor. You might have to go back into the arena." She ended with a sob.

That got Janalen's attention. The arena. The one thing she could remember when she wished she could forget it. Those simple words broke the dam of her memory and every horrible detail came flooding into her mind. Remembering. . .