I stand on the threshold, hunting bag in hand, looking back at the soft bulges beneath the one, thin blanket on the bed. Rory, Vick and little Posy. Huddling together for warmth. Anger and hate of the Capitol swells up inside of me, the urge to run, to take them all away from this horrible place that we call home. I can't stand to watch them lie there, soft and innocent, not on this day. Not today. Rory's first Reaping. I turn on my heel and leave, with slight orange streaks beginning to peek out into the dark sky. The Seam is usually packed with coal miners at this time, heading out to the morning shift. Hunched over, the coal dust eternally stuck in their cracked nails, and the lines of their gaunt skin. But today, not one person is to be found on the streets. Reaping Day. It doesn't start until two, so it's best to sleep in. Or wake up screaming from the nightmares.
I walk silently along the edges of the crumbling streets, exceptionally aware of all the rundown walls and broken shutters, until I reach the square. This is the merchant side of town, for those with enough food and money to not have to take tesserae. This is the Capitol's way of dividing us, to prevent another rebellion. I knock on the back door of the bakery. Five minutes later I leave, my bag one squirrel lighter and one loaf of bread heavier. I stick the sharp point of an arrow into its center, smiling to myself, and knowing for sure that Katniss will appreciate the humor. As the sun slowly rises above the horizon, I begin to run towards the Meadow.
I live in the Seam of District 12, the poorest part of the poorest District. Separating the Meadow from the woods – in fact, enclosing all of our District – is a high chain-link fence topped with loops of barbed wire. It's supposed to be electrified 24 hours of the day to "protect" the residents from the predators that used to threaten our streets, but as we barely get 2 hours of electricity a day, it's usually safe to touch. District 12. Where you can starve to death in safety.
Hunting is the way I learned to survive in a land of poverty after the death of my father in a mine explosion. Five years ago, when I was 13. Sometimes I have trouble remembering the sound of his voice. I climb up the hill and stand atop the rock ledge, protected by a thicket of berry bushes. Our place. Hands in my pockets and the wind ruffling my hair, I look out over the valley and to the mountains beyond. Maybe we really can leave.