Reaping Day is never easy. I know it's coming, my daddy knows it's coming, hell, the world knows it's coming but there's nothing we can do about it. With so many people in the loop you'd think we'd have a strategy to make it better by now, especially after sixty-six years of this.

I'm facing my sixth and it still hasn't happened yet.

The routine is always the same – I get up, wash in the lukewarm water my brother leaves out for me, then dress in the finest clothes my daddy can afford to give me. Even if it's not much I love him just for trying. He only ever wants the best for us.

As I shrug a coarse woollen jacket over my shoulders to fend off the cold, my brother calls out, "It's nearly time!"

"I'm coming... I'm coming..." I race to shove my feet into the dirty, practical boots that are commonplace in District 10 – they're useful for when we're out in the mud. I got mine two years ago when I started work on the farms with my brother.

"Hurry up!" he yells, and I can hear the impatient tap of his foot from the other room. I make a mad dash through just to shut him up but before I can say a word he has me in a hug so tight I can barely breathe. Kita is nineteen now, so he doesn't have to worry like I do, but I can tell by the way his big hands keep me close that he's worrying anyway.

I bump my forehead against his broad chest and he lets go. "I need to breathe," I say and force a smile to make him feel better. "I want to make the most of that luxury while I've got the chance. It's the little things, see."

Kita frowns at me, his heavy brows pulling together into a comically thick line. It looks like a slug from this angle and I half expect it to wander off when he says, "Don't joke about that."

"It's only a joke if it's funny," I say, "and you didn't laugh so I'm off the hook."

He rolls his dark eyes and reaches down to stroke my matted brown curls. Try as I might, I just can't get a brush through them to make them look any neater. It's okay, though, because the other girls in my district aren't very pretty either. We are united in our ugliness.

"What're you laughing at?" Kita taps the tip of my nose with one tanned finger. Just being around him makes the day that much better - maybe it's said too much, but I really do think I have the best brother in all of Panem. He'll make a great father.

"Possibly the funniest girl alive," I tell him with a grin as I picture him with a wife on his arm and a kid on his shoulders. "Who also happens to predict the future in her spare time."

"Uh-huh?" He snorts and takes a step back. "What does the future hold, Fern the Wise?"

Fern the Wise. I have to admit I like the sound of that. "The future holds a pretty wife for you – I think she'll be a milkmaid, a blonde with a strong temper and child-birthing hips." I prop my hands on my own hips for comedic emphasis. "Together you'll spawn six little ones and name them all after cows."

"Not likely." Kita laughs and messes my hair again. "And what's in yours, kiddo?"

I puff my chest up and try to sound as official and important as I can. "The Reaping."

Daddy didn't show up until the two of us, arm in arm, were walking a short-cut over one of the cattle fields to get to the Reaping ceremony. He, like Kita, was big and strong and brown from years working under the hot sun. Unlike Kita, he can't manage a smile or a hug when he sees me.

"It's time already?" Daddy reaches up to wipe away the sweat from his forehead. As usual he spent the morning out working hard for our well-being. When we nod, he sighs. "I hoped I'd have time for at least a change of clothes."

"You look great," I tell him. "Tough as nails and twice as shiny."

Kita laughs for my sake and nudges me in the ribs with his elbow. "The nails around here are rusty, Fern, that one doesn't count, either."

"But you laughed," I point out, laughing. "Joke's already been validated."

Daddy clears his throat and looks from Kita to me, his frown wrinkling his forehead. "Can we keep it quiet for a little while?" he asks. "Just until this is over, then you can laugh as much as you want."

I nod and release my arm from Kita's so that I can hug him because I know he can't make the first move. He feels warm and strong, but, most importantly, he feels alive. There's an underlying hint of cows' waste to him that I want to crack a joke about, but I hold that back by biting down on my tongue. "Daddy," I say, "will you walk with us?"

He smiles though it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'd be honoured to."

And we do. We all make our way down to the Reaping in terse silence that makes my skin itch and my head pound. All these jokes and jibes hang on the tip of my tongue willing themselves free, though they never make it out into the open. Daddy shoots me sidelong glances every two steps to make sure of it. He looks so worried that I want to hug him again, and Kita, too, in the hopes they'd calm down a little.

This isn't their day, it's mine. I'm selfish thinking it even though I know it's true. I don't tell them about the sinking feeling in my gut because it's always there on Reaping Day.

If it wasn't for the Peacekeepers who shove me into line with the rest of the kids I would have said a goodbye just in case. Sometimes I wish they weren't so brutal with us – it's bad enough they have those garish white uniforms and the guns at their belts. I'm not scared of them, though, there are much worse things in our world than their brute force.

Like the rest of the older girls, I'm up front near the stage – I'd be glad to have such a good view if this was anything other than what it was. At least from here I can see our escort, Kazia Hopperman, and her strange Capitol clothing. This year she wears a mix of greens and browns that make her look kinda like a tree. I wonder if she missed the memo and thought she had District 7 this year instead.

The girls around me chatter in hushed tones until Kazia steps forward and adjusts the microphone so that it's level with her green lips. "Ladies and gentleman," she purrs in that wilfully low voice of hers. "Welcome to the Reaping for the 66th annual Hunger Games."

After that I begin to stop paying attention – there's no need to listen to the things I already know. A girl will be reaped and she'll die, a boy will be reaped and he'll die, too. Maybe not at first – though our district usually falls out of the race right from the bloodbath – but it'll come eventually. I'm surprised we still have four living victors, distant though they always seem to be.

When I look over at the stage again, I notice this year it's Hannibal and Ivy who have been chosen to mentor the tributes. They're both somewhere in their thirties, maybe forties, I'd guess. I don't remember their Games, but the dark smile Ivy always seems to wear makes me think hers must have been brutal. Hannibal pats her arm as Kazia jumps back to life once the time comes to pick the lucky tributes.

"For the ladies," Kazia says, scanning the crowd as though she can spot the girl she's about to give the death sentence even before she pulls that tiny slip of paper from the bowl.

My heart races and my palms begin to sweat as the girl beside me drops her head onto my shoulder. I think her name is Layla White, and I know she has three sisters of Reaping age somewhere in this crowd. She sniffles and I feel wetness through the wool of my jacket – it makes my heart ache to know I can't say a thing to make her feel better. I'd like to tell her my joke about Kazia the tree woman.

I know what's coming even before Kazia opens her mouth to say it.

"Iris White."

Layla's scream is muffled by my shoulder, but her sister doesn't have that luxury as she's thrust from the crowd and into the line of fire. Iris comes somewhere from the middle – I'd say she's maybe fourteen or fifteen – and she shakes with every step. If it wasn't for her tan she would have been pale as a ghost, as it was she just looked washed out and tired.

I am a monster for feeling relieved.

"It's okay," I murmur as Iris mounts the stage. Neither me nor Layla listen when she is introduced to us all because she's too busy crying and I'm too busy trying to get her to stop. If they peacekeepers decide we're disturbing the ceremony there's gonna be hell to pay. "Shh."

Kazia has moved to the other ball in record time, probably because she wants to save Iris the humiliation of having to sob on stage for a moment longer than is absolutely necessary. It's a nice thought, even if it isn't the truth.

"And now for the boys," the walking tree says and bats her lashes at us. How she can stand up there and flirt with her unwilling audience is both beyond my comprehension and admirable as anything I've ever seen. Paper in hand she smiles down at us all before she reads off his name in that sultry purr, "Talon Aldjoy."

I don't recognise the name, but I see someone moving from the very back of the boys' lines, so he must only be young. As with Iris, he is given a hearty shove until he starts walking of his own will towards the stage. His hair is the colour of old copper and too long to be practical for a boy, but that's all I notice about him before Kazia pulls him to stand on her other side. She places a hand on each of their shoulders and Layla's heart breaks just a little more when she looks up to see her sister standing there, wet-faced and trembling.

"Since it's customary to ask," Kazia says, and her smile brightens to blinding status when Talon beside her manages not to cry. She's proud of him, I can see it. I am, too.

"Ahem." Kazia clears her throat and looks down at the sea of relieved faces we have morphed into. "Any volunteers?"

It's Layla's sob that makes me do it. I want more than anything for her to stop crying because she's ruining my jacket and Daddy worked hard to buy it for me. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks once the idea hits me.

I step forward and raise my voice as loud as it can go. "I volunteer."

It's not my fault it comes out in a mockery of Kazia's dulcet tones, honestly, I just can't take it serious. If I did, I think I might just cry. Layla is silenced as she squeezes my shoulder in thanks. I try to tell her that it's not for her sake – it would be a horrid thing indeed to leave her with that thought when she sees me die – but no words come out.

Kazia's eyes lock on mine as I push my way through the frozen girls. "Well," she says, more surprised than she should have been. "Come on up."

We've had volunteers before – there are often boys who work on the farms that fancy themselves strong enough to give it a go – but not in the time she's been with our district. Kazia is almost as new to us as her plastic talons are to her.

I pass Iris on my way up as she is waved off the stage and for a second I brush her hand with my own. "Sorry for stealing your spotlight," I whisper and wink. It's nice to see the half-smile she shoots me in return, even if it is forced and full to the brim with sorrow. At least I tried.

Kazia reaches out to take my hand and guide me into place on her right, switching back to her professionalism in the blink of an eye. I can't help but marvel at how good she is in front of the cameras. "Well-" she pauses to adjust her microphone to my height so things are easier on me. "Would you like to tell us your name?"

"Can I choose a new one?" I ask her, grinning away my nerves as is habit for me. "Mine's a little boring." I don't look out at the crowd because I know if I do I'll see Kita shake his head at me and Daddy struggling to keep it together. We'll get our goodbyes when the time is right.

"Come, dear." Kazia's laugh is fake and I want to hug her for it. "Your real name is preferable."

I reach up and primp my hair with one hand, trying to imitate Kazia to the best of my ability with confidence and tree-woman grace. "Fern Galloway. Fern the Wise." I can feel my brother's smile even if I don't see it.

Kazia nods and steps back so me and Talon have empty space between us. Before she tells us a thing, he initiates a stiff handshake that makes my fingers hurt as he squeezes them tight. "Ladies and gentlemen," she says, "your tributes for the 66th annual Hunger Games – Fern Galloway and Talon Aldjoy."