The sun was steadily dropping toward the horizon, the glassy surface of the sea reflecting the orange, yellow, pink, and red of the sky. The storms that had plagued District 4 for the past three days were gone, and had left a sort of mystical serenity in their wake. Normally, on such an idyllic summer evening, one could look out to the beach and see toddlers splashing around in the waves, children sifting through tide pools, teenagers surfing, and adults roasting shellfish around a fire. Tonight, though, only the black silhouettes of large fishing boats could be seen on the sea's cerulean surface. Finnick Odair, floating in his homemade wooden rowboat in his family's small private cove, was hidden from view.
He let himself drift around aimlessly, only using his oar when he got too close to the rocky edges. He knew he wasn't likely to be picked with his name only in the Reaping ball three times among several thousand, but his stomach twisted knowing that two of the kids he'd been training with for as long as he could remember would end up in the arena. It had been five years since Umbriel Jones took home the crown for District 4 and they were getting restless. The fervor had rubbed off on Finnick, and though he didn't plan to volunteer until he was at least sixteen, the fourteen-year-old trained with such ferocity that he was one of the best in the class. He believed that when he eventually made it to the Games, District 4 would have a winner once again.
The last few blood red rays of daylight glinted off the boy's sun-bleached reddish brown hair and his deeply tan skin. His training had left him very well-muscled, especially for his age, and he already stood six-foot-one. He knew he was attractive; women of all ages flirted with him-a few were still undeterred when they found out he was fourteen, which creeped him out endlessly. But his looks were something given to him by chance, and he felt awkward receiving praise for them. Someday, after he returned alive to District 4 from the Hunger Games, all of Panem would be able to look past his handsome face and see a person of real worth.
"Finnick! Dinner's ready." His mother's voice rang out over the wave-worn rocks, and he paddled inward, tying his boat to an old willow tree. "I made bouillabaisse and your father bought some fresh bread from the pier."
"Wonderful," said Finnick, scooping his mother into a hug, dwarfing even her five-foot-nine frame.
They broke apart, and she examined her son with her sea-green eyes, a small smile on her lips. "You're awfully affectionate all of a sudden, Finn. What's the deal?"
Finnick didn't return her smile. "Same reason you made my favorite meal for dinner."
She smoothed back his overgrown hair, smiling sadly at her youngest child who she could see really wasn't a child anymore. "You know that if your name gets drawn, Ahti or Noah or one of those other guys will volunteer faster than you can spear a fish."
The thought didn't cheer Finnick up. Ahti and the other eighteen-year-old guys were all strong and deadly, but so were the Careers from 1 and 2. And even if they did manage to win, it would mean the girl tribute from 4 would have to die. Though Finnick was shy around the older girls who trained and didn't know any of them very well, he hated the thought of them dying.
Mrs. Odair sensed what her son was feeling, and sympathized with him. She herself had gone through Career training up until the age of eleven, when it became obvious she lacked the necessary coordination of a victor. Her husband had been dropped at sixteen after getting in a surfing accident that gave him a perpetually stiff neck. Finnick's nineteen-year-old sister Mar had completed training without once volunteering. But all of them had watched their friends die.
She placed her hand on Finnick's shoulder and led him into the house. His father was setting the table with their finest gold ware, and his sister was spreading salmon cream cheese on slices of green-tinted bread. Mar brushed her long blonde hair out of her eyes and smiled at him, her green eyes shining with unshed tears. Finnick knew she was thinking about Spiro, one of the eighteen-year-old trainees. He and Mar had just started dating, and it would be a shame if he was taken from her so soon. Not, Finnick thought bitterly, that he would volunteer, but then again neither had Mar.
Mar brought the plate of bread to the table as Mrs. Odair carried the steaming crock-pot of bouillabaisse. They sat down, and with a few well-placed jokes from their mother and a couple of vivid stories from their father, the Odair children brushed off their pressing concerns and slept that night without trouble.