Chapter 1

The obnoxious wake-up call from the square fills my room, and I'm brought back into harsh reality. Grayson lies next to me, his hardened back as wide as the eye can see. Today is reaping day, so we were going to sleep in. They told us this year it'd be later in the day, but right now, the sun isn't even up.

I groan and roll out of bed. Once I've woken up, I can't get back to sleep. I might as well wash my hair and get ready for the day.

I flick the bathroom light a few times before it turns on. When the house was hit, the power lines were cut. We did our best to put them back together, but sometimes it just doesn't work. I turn the shower knob, and freezing cold water flies from the faucet. I have to wait for a few moments for the water to come out clear, and then it takes a few minutes to heat up. In the meantime, I strip out of my clothes, which pool around my feet. What's left of my clothing is muddy and stained, but I do still have a deep green dress to wear.

I hop into the shower and let the hot water run over my hair. I keep it short so it's out of the way when I'm doing things with my hands. It's ratty, and feels like straw. We rarely use soap, so days like today are special. Mom saved several bottles of shampoo during the war, and a few bottles of conditioner.

When I'm done, I run my hands through my hair, and let it bounce back to its normal mess.

"Are you done, Viv," my brother nags from behind the door.

"Fuck off," I tell him, wrapping a towel around my body.

"Fuck you," he snarls as I pass him. I flip him off.

A deep red dress waits for me at the foot of my bed, with a note written in swirly handwriting.

"For my sweet girl," it reads. I smile, and lift the soft fabric to my nose. It smells like mom. She must have wanted me to wear this today.

"Did you see mom leave this morning," I yell at Grayson, knowing he can hear me.

"Yeah, she's staying out late today. She said we can go to the reaping without her."

I nod. Sounds about right. I haven't seen her since the end of the war. Not in person, at least. I know she's around. She leaves notes and random trinkets around the house. Grayson brings her papers at work sometimes. I know she trusts my brother to take care of me.

Dad died during the war. He was blown up by one of the capitol's pods. Grayson said he died honorably. I said he died spectacularly.

I slip into the thin garment, and let it drape over my body. It's flowy, and soft. I tie my hair back into a tiny ponytail, and smile at myself in the mirror.

Grayson, clothed in a towel, yanks the elastic out of my hair. "It looks better that way," he says. I flip him off again.

"Breakfast," he asks, not bothering to look at me.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble, heading to the small kitchen.

I have to flick the stove a few times to get the gas to go, and then I have to light it. Once the fire is on, I throw a pan on it with eggs and some goat meat from the girl in the market. Not many people are brave enough to scale the mountains, but she is.

Grayson musses my hair as he passes me, and I punch him.

"That looks good on you," he says, poking me on the back.

"Whatever," I grumble.

He laughs to himself and takes a seat at the dilapidated table in our "dining room."

"Are you ready for today," he asks.

"Yeah," I lie. "My name is only in there five times. You should be terrified."

"Yeah," he laughs. "I guess I should be." He entered his name for three extra shares of food, so now he's in the reaping 28 times. "I just don't think I'll get pulled."

"If you get sent to the Capitol, I can live alone."

He rolls his eyes. "As if."

"You done," I ask, already taking his empty plate.

"Fuck you," he grins back.

"The reaping is at eleven," I remind him. "Plenty of time to fix that light."

"You already know what I'm going to say."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

Grayson hugs me from behind, his thick arms like prison bars, restraining me.

"I love you," he says.

"I love you too," I groan. "Now will you let go of me?"

He laughs, and lets me go. "Don't be late for the reaping," he warns.

"Got it," I sigh, heading for the door. "I'll see you then."

He waves, and I lock the door behind me. What waits for me out here is Diamond Row. It's quiet, most people went back to sleep after the wake-up call. The streets are scattered with rubble, and the odd bullet casing. A few houses up is a pile of rubble that was my childhood friend's home. It's deserted now, except for the odd crow or carrion bird. Regularly, I scavenge the streets, looking for the odd scrap of fabric or piece of junk that I can sell for money. Today though, I keep my eyes forward and off of the ground. Instead I look straight ahead, heading to the park. What used to be grass in the park is now a collection of dandelions, blowing in the sighing wind. I carefully slip through the collection of crosses, trying not to knock any of them over, and come to my father's grave.

Adrian Lovett, father and friend, it reads. I barely remember him. I guess that's what five years does to you.

I stay in the park for most of the morning, pulling up grass and munching on the white tips, laying amongst the trees, watching the sun rise in the sky. Eventually, the 10:30 bell rings in the town square, and I know I should head there for the reaping.

When I arrive, I find Grayson amongst the other kids. He's already checked in, and nursing his pricked finger. I wave to him, and he waves back, touching his wrist. You're late, he mouths.

I shrug, and give the peacekeeper lady my hand, so I can check in. I feel a jolt of pain, and then she sticks my finger to the reactive paper.

"You can go," she mutters, reaching for the next hand already.

Grayson stands with the seventeen year-old boys, and I find my place with the fifteen year-old girls. The crowd grows quiet as the representative from the Capitol steps onto the stage, dressed in a strict and confining dress. It juts out at strange angles, and the edges are sharp, like knives. She lifts her chin high, looking down on all of us like we're worthless. She takes her place at the center of the stage, next to the head peacekeeper, interim mayor of our town. He stands at attention, perfectly rigid and straight.

The Capitol representative taps the microphone, and there's a short moment of feedback.

"Welcome, residents of District One," she drones, "to the fifth annual Hunger Games. My name is Christie Samela, and I am your representative from the Capitol. I've been sent to select the two tributes for this year's games. Isn't that exciting?" The looks at us, flatly, expecting applause and joy, but receiving none. She huffs, and gives us a sour stare, but continues her speech.

"Five years ago, our glorious nation of Panem had to stand earthquakes, floods, and storms, but we grew strong, and a new civilization rose from the ashes. Through the strength of our people the Capitol and its 13 districts which surround it began to grow, and the districts rebelled. Through years of turmoil and bitter war, the Capitol emerged victorious, and District 13 was destroyed. In order to prevent any further rebellion, the Capitol has implemented the use of a special pageant called the Hunger Games, wherein each of the 12 districts offers one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 to compete in a pageant of strength. Through these games, we hope to teach the new generation that we can live together in peace and prosperity without further violence.

"Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favour."

Christie nods, giving us a pained smile, and heads over to the glass fishbowl to her right. Then she plunges her hand into the bowl, tiny slips of paper slipping out all over the ground and onto the stage. She seems to find one paper she likes, and snatches hold, clutching it between her two fingers as she marches back to the podium. Almost joyously, she slips her thumbs under the paper sealing, and pulls the edges back.

"The female tribute from district one," Christie calls, "is Viviana Lovett."

There's a moment of silence, and I can feel the eyes of the audience turning to look for her. What a poor kid, won't be seeing her again.

Wait.

My name is Viviana Lovett.

The world seems to disappear as the girl behind me places her hand flat on my back to guide me out of line. I can't see, it's completely black. I can't breathe, I can't feel anything. My heart is pounding in me ears so loud that I cant hear anything by the thu-thumping of my heart. I think I'm about to hyperventilate, when I suddenly stumble over the step of the stage, where I ask hoisted up by the armpits to join Christie upstairs. I know she's enjoying this, but I can't see, I can't do anything, except walk towards her, hand outstretched.

"Viviana! What an honor it must be for you to be here today. But before we move on to the boys, I must extend an invitation for volunteers."

I know the crowd will be silent, except for the sorrow of my brother.

"Nobody?" She says, and I know she's grinning on the inside. "I guess then its time to move on to the boys."

She trots over to the boys fishbowl, but before she even reaches in someone yells, loudly.

"I volunteer as male tribute!"

I can't see where the voice came from, but I recognize it well enough. "No," I hear myself scream, "stop!"

But I can't stop him. He jumps up onto the stage without any help, skipping the stairs, and Christie lets out a little yelp of surprise. "You have to wait," she says, "that's not how this works-"

"I don't care," Grayson mutters, placing a hand flat on my back. "My name is Grayson Lovett, and I volunteer as tribute."

Christie is boiling, I'm sure, but she can't say anything more, except to accept us as the tributes. "Residents of District One," she says, clenching her teeth, "your tributes!"

"I won't let you die," Grayson whispers to me as the crowd begins to clap. "I'll get you out of this."

I take his hand and squeeze it tightly with my fingers. "We're not going to live through this."

He gently kisses my temple. "I promise you, you're gonna live."