CHAPTER ONE

"Ladies first!" says Mardy Rollo, his talon like nails dipping into the glass bowl of female names. "Mags Flanagan!"

And I'm awake. My fingertips stroke the soft fabric of the mattress to reassure me that I am at home. Not at the Reaping. Not yet. That comes later. I lay on my side, staring out the second story window of our shell cottage at the water out back. It's still. No waves. Not even a ripple.

It's been the same nightmare for the past week. My name being drawn for the eleventh Hunger Games. Just two years and three months and I'll be too old to be reaped. Something unsettled within me says that that doesn't matter. That today I will be reaped. Plucked from the arms of my mother and father and older brother. Thrown into the Arena.

I'm not necessarily a hopeless case. My odds are, to be honest, fifty-fifty. I'm handy with knives, nets and not too bad with a trident. Everyone knows this. My family's shop sells the most fish of anyone in District Four. Perhaps it's how the shop resembles a homey shed that we are so popular. Maybe it's the fact that it is family run. My theory is that it reminds people of over a decade ago. Before the Hunger Games had started. Before the Dark Days had begun.

Over the years, districts have been rising from poverty one by one. Districts One and Two recovered less than two months after The Rebellion had failed. Three only one year after that. It seemed the more Victors from the District, the more positive progress was made.

District One has conquered Games one, two, three and six. District Two has won four and nine. District Three took the fifth and eighth. District Four has taken the seventh and the tenth. Since District One's third victory they've had volunteers for Tributes left and right. The fad is catching on slowly with Districts Two and Three. I've heard rumors that District Five is orchestrating a plan for volunteers to gain more sponsors for the Games.

It seems like beyond District Six, it's hopeless.

I clamber out of bed, the first one awake, as usual. I don't bother changing out of my tank top and shorts. I can't wear anything I like today. Just the one outfit. The sea-foam green dress with the white sweater and flats.

I creep down the hall past Hook's room. His snores can be heard from outside the door. Twenty year old bastard sleeps soundly knowing that he can't be reaped, though I'm sure he'll be gravely concerned for me the rest of the day when he wakes up.

My parent's room is silent. They were up late last night making the shop spotless in case the Peacekeepers decided to do a random inspection. They did two years ago and it shut down the Marx's Shellfish shop. I offered to help but they insisted that Hook and I rest. That we had done enough by fishing out the whole bay together.

It isn't a chore to do that. Not to me. Standing knee deep in the water, watching vigilantly for the shimmer of fish's scales beneath me with my brother is one of my favorite parts of the day. We'll talk and laugh and occasionally push each other in. Make bets on who will catch the most fish, etcetera. Sometimes I'll sit on the shore and just watch him, weaving one of my famous baskets my parents insist we sell in our store.

The stairs creak just slightly as I descend into the living room, walking straight to the kitchen. I grab four coffee mugs from hooks above the sink and begin to boil water on the stovetop in a pot. Mindlessly I grab the most caffeinated tea bags and place a bag in each cup. It's a morning ritual that comes easily to me always being the first one awake.

Then it's time to make the eggs.

Within a half hour, breakfast is made for everyone.

Eggs and biscuits with the crab from last night's dinner on the side.

"Mom wants the shop open today."

I jump as I set down the plate of eggs and look over my shoulder to see my brother. He's over six feet tall with my family's signature light bronze hair and the District Four blue-green eyes. He smiles at my startled reaction and crosses to the stove, picking up the steaming mugs of tea.

"How you feeling, kid?" he asks, walking to the dark wood table and setting the cups down by the plates.

I shrug in response, taking a seat.

"As well as I can be, Hook."

He sits down slowly, across from me. I can feel his stare as I pretend to busy myself by cutting eggs with my fork.

"So mom wants us open today? When did she tell you that?" I clarify.

I should have been told this too. I'm just as much part of the business as Hook is. I can tell my expression shows my frustration by the amused smile on Hook's face.

"Calm down, Mags. She just decided ten minutes ago when she woke me," he chuckles. "Besides, she doesn't want us working. Says we should take it easy today. Probably afraid Peacekeepers will ask for age authentication for me if I say I'm twenty and then a Rigged Reap. We can thank Allan for that."

Allan Gribbs lied two years ago and told the Peacekeepers he was nineteen to prevent being reaped. After research that was available at their fingertips they discovered he was only seventeen and he was coincidentally reaped. He lost the Games. A lot of us theorized it was punishment for his lie. Ever since we have referred to anyone who has the slightest transgression against the Capitol having their name drawn as a Rigged Reap. We think there has been at least two.

"I want to work too," I mumble, sipping my tea.

"I'm not stopping you. Just tell Mom you want to keep your mind off the Reaping or something like that."

I raise my brows and nod in response. Not a bad plan.

"You owe me an excuse token for that, Mags," he says pointedly.

We've always been good at fabricating elaborate emotional excuses to get out of tasks our parents assign. Hook and I agree to trade them. He owes me one excuse token-zero now-and I now owe him two.

"Fair enough," I agree, shaking his hand across the table.

"Good-morning," a cheerful voice says.

My mother floats down the stairs, looking like some sort of princess. Her long, black ringlets flow about her face and her icy blue eyes are bright…they're also red. She's been crying. Mom does every year on Reaping Day. My Dad appears behind her, his eyes are mindful as he watches my mother sit down at the table. I look over at him with an inquisitive brow.

Running his hand through his greying hair, he nods at me to signal that mom is fine. She tends to have these emotional outbursts of anxiety that result in hysterical sobbing and shortness of breath.

"Mom, I'd like to work in the store today," I say bluntly.

She looks up from her plate with furrowed brows.

"I don't know, Mags-"

"Mom, please. I don't want to spend my whole day just thinking about the Reaping."

My mom looks to my father. I glance at Hook out of the corner of my eye. He is gnawing on his lower lip, eager to see if his excuse token was worth anything. My dad's eyes narrow as he considers the prospect of me working.

"You could use an extra pair of hands on a day with Peacekeepers. I know it. What if they decide to inspect? You'll get swamped accompanying them with no one to cover-"

"Yeah, Sandie, let her work," my Dad resolves.

My Mother's brows knit together further and she sighs.

"Alright, just…just please watch your mouth if you get a Peacekeeper."

"Watch my mouth?" I ask, slightly incredulous.

My Dad takes a seat, drawing in a breath as though bracing himself for an exhausting task.

"You have a tendency to be a bit…sassy with customers that you don't exactly…favor…" my Mom says hesitantly.

I feel slightly defensive, but manage to calm myself all the same.

"Sassy? When have I been 'sassy?'"

My brother snorts, laughing as he swallow some of his breakfast. I cast a glare at him.

"What?" I snap.

"Oh, c'mon, Mags. Remember Boyle?" questions Hook.

"He called our fish 'sub-par.' We were giving him a deal! It was rude!"

"And how about Mossy?"

"Mossy is a spoiled, little girl who has no idea what she's talking about when it comes to net weaving. She has no right to criticize my work," I snap.

"And the poor Odair boy?" inquires my Father.

My eyes flicker over to him and I feel a blush paint my cheeks.

"Tucker Odair is as arrogant as they come and made me uncomfortable."

"He winked at you, Mags!" my brother laughs.

"Inappropriate. That's all I have to say about that," I reply. "Besides, I'll be very polite, Mom. I'm a completely different person around Peacekeepers. Everyone is."

I stand with my half empty plate and walk to the sink, scraping the contents of my leftover breakfast into the garbage.

"I'll even curtsy for them if you like," I add.

After placing my dishes in the sink I turn around to see my parents staring at me, wide eyed. My brother is still snickering, eating his breakfast. To break the tension I do a sarcastic curtsy for them with a fake smile.

"We're doomed," my dad says flatly.

I laugh as my mother swats his shoulder.

"Did you see that sad excuse for a curtsy, Sandie? We're doomed!" he insists.

My father succeeds in his covert mission to cheer my Mom up. She laughs quietly and starts at her breakfast.

"If you're going to open up the shop then you'd better get into your Reaping Clothes, Mags. The keys are on your Father's nightstand."

My unruly, wavy hair refuses to stay pinned down at the sides so instead I throw it into a loose bun at the side nape of my neck. There's one, small, rope braid tucked into it. Something a lot of District Four girls wear to show pride for our netting skills.

The shoes are a bit big. They always have been. They're my mother's and she insists that they're lucky. Maybe she's right. Since I was old enough to be reaped I've worn these shoes and my name hasn't been drawn. Today it's in there a little over thirteen times, which is rather miniscule.

However, I feel a tugging inside of me that says I'm still in danger.

I don't want to accept it yet. I tell myself that I always worry like this. I don't though. Deep down I know I have never had such an ominous feeling before.

Leaving our house I am surprised at the lack of conversation I encounter with my family. Hook just gives my shoulder a squeeze and my parents wash the morning dishes, still in their pajamas.

If they aren't worried, why should I be? Mom, the worrier of all worriers isn't concerned.

I'll add that to list of things I need to remind myself of while I try to maneuver through these next few hours.

The shop is just next door, as I unlock the door there's a loud 'whirring' and the wind begins to blow the trees. I know the source. I can't help but look skyward as the large, silver hovercraft zooms over the water causing large ripples that will send the fish into a frantic swim away from the shore. A light breeze shuffles over the almost vacant streets. Everyone out and about owns a shop.

A woman exits her bakery across the road and begins to hurriedly sweep some leaves off of her porch. I yawn and enter our shop, flipping on the lights. One of the light blue walls are lined with nets made by Mother and Hook. My Father and I have our own wall of tackle we've crafted. Each one colorful and unique.

Then my baskets decorating the entire east side of the shop. They vary in size and shades of brown. Surprisingly popular among the citizens of District Four.

I unlock the ice box latch and open the lid. Inside a stack of fix lay covered in wax paper and frost. All ready to be sold. Possibly to Peacekeepers. Hopefully to them.

'DING!'

My head whips around to identify the person who has walked through the door. Peacekeeper? Family? Friend? Random customer? It better not to be Odair.

Amdra Damslay.

Oh, hell. She's in there almost thirty times today. It's her final reaping.

"Hey, Amdra. Uh…you want the five fish and net?" I ask, tying an apron from beneath the register around my waist.

"Yeah, thanks. Just bag them up for me."

I nod and try to avoid looking at her. For some reason I can't help but feel a bit sorry for her. A bit worried even. I know it'll show on my face if I look at her. I open the ice locker and remove the five fish, taking them to the slab on the front counter to wrap up.

"Worried for me?" her rich voice says.

She's always had a talent for sounding years older than she is. Looking it too. Her high cheekbones and constantly set brows give her a look of resolution that only adults seem to carry.

I look up at her, trying to seem perplexed. Obviously, I'm not convincing enough judging by the slight smirk that appears on her face. She runs a hand through her sleek hair and laughs quietly.

"They say I'm in there more than any other girl. I'm probably going to get drawn. Just one year off from being out of this mess," she says gruffly.

I finish wrapping up the fish and smile wryly at her, grabbing a net off the wall behind me. I begin folding it. I don't know what to say.

"Guess taking out tesserae and selling it didn't do me much good in the end? What good is extra money if you're dead?"

"Someone could volunteer for you," I try hopefully, bagging up her purchase.

She snorts sarcastically and removes some money from the pocket of her dress, shaking her head. I accept the currency and do my best not to frown at Amdra.

"Everyone knows District Four girls don't volunteer. When have one of us won? The only reason the boys volunteer is because there's only been one female victor and she was from One. No girl will be volunteering any time soon."

I want to tell her about the feeling I've had in the pit of my stomach like I would be drawn. However, her mind is set that it's going to be her, just as it is set in mine that it will be me.

Add that to list of things to comfort me. I'm obviously not the only one with this ominous feeling.

'DING!'

Amdra turns around and we both stand up straighter. Two Peacekeepers walk through the door. Their white masks are removed and guns are hanging from their hips. I hastily hand Amdra her change. She takes her change from my palm, gives me a nod of reassurance and exits the store keeping a wide birth between her and the Peacekeepers. They are chuckling with one another which I take as a good sign. This no longer seems like an inspection. Still, I'm wary.

I plaster a smile on my face.

"Hi. Welcome to Flanagan Fish and Supplies. How can I-"

"No fish. We've got a long journey. We just need something for the wives," one of them interrupts.

He's tall with a heavy amount of stubble. I'm not intimidated, just anxious. The other one is stocky with beady eyes. I don't quite appreciate him interrupting me, still I bite my tongue. Just like my mom has asked. I continue to smile at him.

"I…We have tackle. Very colorful. Each one is handmade and one of a kind. I-"

"Tackle?"

"I told you we should have gone to the jewelry shop instead, Brock," murmurs the one with stubble.

"Adelaide hates jewelry. She wants something different," Brock whispers.

"Nets. District Four is known for its nets and my mother and brother make them every week. They're good for storage, laundry-"

"What about those?" Brock says pointing to my wall of baskets.

I glance at them, my lips pursing. I was hoping not to draw attention to those. I don't want any attention posed at me in any way. Not from Peacekeepers. Still. If selling one of my baskets gets them out of here…

"Those are our signature baskets. Very affordable," I nod.

Brock and his partner raise their brows, both are smiling a bit. I decide to push them further.

"They're waterproof. If you put them in water, they'll float. Our Mayor's wife buys the small ones to hold her drink in the water while she's in her pool."

They pause and walk over to the wall. Both of them eyeing the baskets. I inhale through my nose trying to decipher what they are murmuring. Brock looks over his shoulder at me.

"Does your mom make these?" he asks.

"No, I do," I blurt.

"You do? A child?"

I fight off a sneer and sigh, maintaining a composed expression with a complacent smile. His partner scoffs lightly and removes a basket. He flicks its base. His lips turn down at the sides in approval. He tosses it lightly to Brock.

"It's sturdy. She's not lying."

Brock grabs two more and sets them on the counter in front of me. I continue to smile at him politely. He looks down his nose at me, while his partner waits by the door. I eye the baskets, pricing them.

"That's fifteen," I say.

He looks a little impressed. It's true. I lowered the price. It's the smartest thing I can think of to safeguard our store from inspection and possibly to make up for any unappreciated facial expressions I made.

"Fifteen? That's pretty cheap," he remarks, watching me place the baskets in a bag.

"It's Reaping Day. Flanagan's always give a discount for Reaping Day. And always to Peacekeepers," I add.

"Always? Really?"

It isn't a lie.

"Really. Anytime you come here there's a discount. You're our protectors, it's the least we can do."

He nods, passing over his money as I trade with him the bag.

"Have a good day," I grin.

'DING!'

"Mom made me bring you a biscuit. She's convinced you didn't eat enough…" Hook trails off as the two Peacekeepers eye him.

I hold my breath. Hook tries to nonchalantly join me behind the counter but the eyes of the Peacekeepers are on him. Are they going to question him? Are they going to do an inspection? I hope they are pleased enough with baskets that they will leave us with this warning look and be done with it. Sure enough, they offer a hand of gratitude and exit our store. As soon as the door closes Hook and I sigh loudly in relief.

"The power of baskets," I snicker.

"That's all they took? Baskets?"

"I make good baskets," I defend.

"And you must have kept your sassy mouth shut."

"I do not have a sassy mouth!"

We continue on this way for a few hours until my parents appear and make us leave. Hook and I stand in the water outback for a while, careful to keep our clothes from getting wet. We are both silent but both thinking about the same thing, though the circumstances are different for each of us. Eventually Hook squeezes my hand, obviously not wanting to verbally express his concern for me.

"Amdra is in there more than any other girl, you know," he says softly.

"Yeah, I talked to her this morning."

"So you've got nothing to worry about, Mags," murmurs Hook.

I nod vigorously.

Though I'm not really sure.

By one o'clock everyone has closed up shop, got dolled up and is heading for the town square. Most everyone looks gloomy with the exception of the handful that attended the Academy of Training and Preparedness for the Games this year. It's essentially mandatory for Districts One through Three, though with Four's recent success we have been invited to join them. Some speculate that with a few more victors they'll be making the Academy mandatory for us too.

"Alright, dear, we'll see you soon," my mother whispers, embracing me.

Her eyes water slightly and I peck her cheek with a reassuring smile.

"You'll be fine, Mags. Love you," says my dad giving me a gruff kiss on the head.

Hook grabs my shoulder and shakes it reassuringly. He bends his knees so that we are eye level.

"Hang in there, kid. Just two more of these and you're done with this bull sh-"

"Hook," my mom scolds.

My brother rolls his eyes and squeezes me briefly. I set off towards the line of anxious looking kids and hold my breath, awaiting my turn.

I check in with the Capitol officials dressed in an eye-burning white and gold. They prick our fingers, verify our identities with their expensive gadgets and send us to be sorted into rows by age. We're not quite packed like sardines, but the distances between each of us in uncomfortable.

I look over my shoulder to try and spot my family but they are blocked by rows and rows of spectators. Each one more nervous looking than the last. Across the way stand the boys. They all look somewhat impatient. Ready for this to be over…or ready for it to begin.

'Thump! Thump! Thump!'

All eyes are forward.

There he is.

Mardy Rollo. District Four's escort. Projected on the jumbo-tron above the stage. The stage normally set for entertainment and merriment, now a pedestal for death and brutality. His brown eyes are rimmed with shimmering, blue liner are filled with an almost artificial excitement. Everyone applauds dully and he offers a hand to acknowledge our existence.

How generous.

"Welcome to the Reaping of the Eleventh Annual Hunger Games," he says in an overly enthusiastic tone.

My God, he is so sickeningly cheerful I feel the need to slap him.

"And now we have a special film from the Capitol!" announces Mardy.

'War…Terrible War…'

The film begins. I can remember back to two years ago at Hook's last Reaping where I watched him roll his eyes and mouth every single word. The eighteen year olds beside him had to fight off snickers. Then ten minutes later he was done with the Hunger Games. Safe from their wrath forever.

'This is how we safeguard our future…'

"A wonderful reminder of the mercy of our leaders," Mardy says solemnly, looking right into the camera lens so it's like he is staring at me.

I can't help but sigh in irritation and purse my lips. Then my chest tightens. Mardy struts over to the glass bowl of girl names, his silvery suit shining like metal and microphone in hand.

"Ladies first."

I watch his hand dip into the bowl and his manicured fingers brush over the tiny slips of paper.

It looks just like my nightmare.

I turn my head to see Amdra. She stands with her head high, eyes wet with tears. She honestly believes that it's her. The girl next to me inhales so loudly I jump. I look back to the stage just in time to see Mardy remove a piece of paper. My heart beats fast and there's a burning my stomach that makes me want to vomit.

In one hand he holds the microphone, in the other the paper. His eyes narrow on it. I watch the jumbo-tron with bated breath.

"And the female tribute from District Four is…" he says with a sly smile. "Mags Flanagan."

Me. It's me.

*I plan on making each one pretty long so don't expect a new one every day, but with the proper amount of support, I swear to have one at least every week. I plan on making a story of her entire Hunger Games. Almost feature length.*