Today. Now. The alarms are blaring, telling us to assemble in front of the Justice Building. I look at my parents, who look back at me sadly. They have lived through this their whole lives, just as I have. The only difference is that my name is still in that bowl. Six times. My name is in that bowl six times.

"Come on, Lightning," my mother says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "It's time to go."

No sooner am I out the door than do I hear, "Hey, Lightning!"

I turn and am met with the always comforting sight of my best friend, Ian Turbine. "Hey, Ian!" I try to remain as cheerful as he is. He has a knack of keeping a smile in even the most depressing of times. Like today. "Ready for the Reaping?"

"Hey! The odds are in our favor, right?" he says with a chuckle. The Capitol's slogan was ridiculous because, out here in the districts, the odds are never in our favor.

"Yeah. Right," I agree sarcastically. We walk for a little while longer in silence.

"Who do you think it's going to be?" he asks, his tone more serious this time.

"How can I know that?" I ask, thinking of the hundreds of kids that will be assembled in front of the Justice Building today. "For their sakes, I hope it's someone older. The older kids always have better chances."

The lines come into view now. Everyone must sign in with a finger prick and go stand by age and gender. Before we get into our groups, Ian and I hug. We have every year since my name was put into that bowl, since Ian is a year older than I am. This will be his last year, and the supposed luck that it gives us will be needed more than ever. The hug cannot last long, as almost everyone is already in place. When we separate, before we turn our backs on each other, I realize that there is true fear in Ian's eyes. This shakes me to the core because I have never seen any semblance of fear in those bright eyes. I think that he realizes his façade has fallen because a smile immediately springs to his lips. I go in for another quick hug and then run off to my section.

In a few moments, Ambrosia Maddox is up on the stage. She is the escort assigned to District 5. Her ridiculous Capitol look stands out in the bleak surroundings. Of course, with Capitol fashion, that's kind of the point. Her skin has been dyed to a sickly grey. She sparkly, metallic paint or makeup on her eyes, shoulders, and knees. Her hair has been dyed white with black and grey lowlights, and her eyes are purple. Her costume mimics a wind turbine, and various purple jewels on it light up. "Welcome, District 5," she says in her distinct Capitol accent. "It is my honor to be here in preparation for the sixty-eighth annual Hunger Games! However, before we get started, we a special video from the Capitol."

Everyone turns their attentions to the large screens that begin to play the special propaganda video about the history of the Hunger Games. I don't care about that. I've been watching it all my life. Instead, I turn my attention to the previous victors that sit up on the stage with the mayor and his family. There are six still alive, and we all know them, even if we weren't alive for their games or were too young to remember them now. My eyes fall on the most recent victor, Prota Franklin. She won the sixtieth games. However, I'm much more interested in Joule Osbourne, the victor of the fifty-first games. She was only fifteen when she won, and she did it by outsmarting every one of the other tributes. My parents told me that it had been a real art to see her plotting out what she would do. It was a shame that her old house burned down in a freak accident when she got home.

Ambrosia turns my attention back to her. "What a wonderful video! I never get tired of seeing it! Anyway, we're here today to select one young man and woman to compete in this year's Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor." She pauses a moment to smile at us. I'm not sure if she was expected to receive any in return, but she continued when she didn't get any. "Ladies first, of course." She approached the large bowl that held the folded up names of every girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Her hand floats above the sea of papers and picks one out at random. She takes it back over to the microphone and unfolds it.

"Lightning Watts."

I feel the world slip sideways as the blood falls from my head. Did I hear her correctly? Yes, I had to have. No one else moves from their spot except to look at me. I step slowly from my section and see Ian move toward me. He can't do anything, though, so I pretend that I don't see him. The walk to the stage feels like it takes forever. Peacekeepers are standing close to make sure... what? So that I don't run? My legs shake as I climb the steps and I can barely hear Ambrosia urging me up. I'm caught in a stupor of disbelief. So much for the odds, right?

"Congratulations, Miss Watts," she says with a smile. There is something in it, though, that makes me think she isn't being totally sincere. She seems to acknowledge the tears brimming in my eyes and knows what torture I will be put through. I'm not sure, though, and she immediately continues. "Now, for the boys." When she returns with a paper, it's all I can do not to scream. A loud, angry sob threatens to tear through my defenses and release itself on the people in this audience. "Cal Turbine."

I search desperately through the boys to find who it is that goes by that name. I want to know who I might have to... to kill in order to return home. The section of twelve-year-olds shuffles, and a small, dark-haired boy steps out. I feel my heart sinking when I see how terrified he looks.

I remember Ian. I remember all the strong faces that he has ever put on for my benefit, and I resolve to be that source of strength for this boy. This boy that has to die because his ancestors fought against an oppressive government. I straighten and thrust my chin up. All tears that were welling in my eyes disappear, and my knees find their strength. I can see Ian in the audience, who I assume has not yet taken his eyes off of me. He notices my strength and smiles back at me, knowing me well enough to know what has crossed my mind.

He is finally up the stairs, and Ambrosia begins anew. "Congratulations, Mister Turbine. Now, why don't you two shake hands?"

I turn to him and hold out my hand, determined to keep my countenance. He looks up at me with terror still in his eyes. His hand reaches for mine tentatively. As I take it, I smile softly and nod to him, letting him know that he will be okay, even though he knows that no one who participates in the games is ever okay. I think he finds comfort in my strength, though, because his grip tightens.

I guess it's begun.