The Lucky Ones

by tilleytastic

Life in District 12 marches on, and fifteen-year-old Maysilee Donner is sure she knows everything there is to know. That is, until she meets a boy from the Seam, and suddenly Maysilee realizes that her world— or rather her own tiny corner of the world— isn't what it appears. There are only thirty days until the Second Quarter Quell, and Maysilee has no idea where her loyalties lie.

1. Prologue

Prologue—0:00:00:00

"Maysilee Donner!"

I can't stop myself from wrenching free of Laurelie's tight grip, or from walking through the crowd that parts like an ocean until I am on display in front of everyone I have ever known.

My whole body feels like ice. I stare out over the entire District, but I may as well be blind for all that I really process. I pretend not to hear Laurelie's muffled sobbing, either. My heart is beating too hard for me to really do anything besides stand beside Ambrosina's podium.

The girl next to me—Rissa, I think her name is—has the look of the Seam and panicked tears streaming down her cheeks. I don't blame her. My mind takes the two of us right into whatever arena awaits us, and my fear makes me tremble. I'm lost in a world of horrible possibilities until I hear Ambrosina's voice boom out over the crowd again.

"Abernathy, Haymitch!"

My eyes snap upwards to lock with his gray ones as he makes his way towards the podium. There's something written in his expression that I can't place… after all, it isn't that cocky confidence that I always imagine when anybody says his name. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm seeing fear in him, too.

Forcing myself to keep from crying or fainting or vomiting or who-knows-what-else, I finally look into the crowd. It's a struggle to avoid my sister's face, but I manage it anyways. As far as I can tell, the expressions across the crowd are split into two categories: the steely gaze of hearts hardened to the grief of the Reaping, and the tearful worry of families and friends that see their loved ones, people like me, on the podium.

It isn't until the last tribute is called, a bookish Seam boy by the name of Plato, with big glasses and lanky limbs, that I realize just why everyone seems so resigned to our fates. They don't expect to see any of us come home again. I glance to my right and left. Haymitch's jaw is locked, Rissa's still crying softly, and Plato looks dazed, like he's in a dream. I don't think any of us have delusions of grandeur either.

We're going to die in the arena.