Chapter 1: Bread and Strawberries

I stuff the dead squirrel into my game bag, trying not to look at the piercing through its eye. Even if it is the cleanest shot for bringing down squirrel, I never like to observe my kills too closely, even while and after I'm cleaning them. You would think that, being a hunter, I would be less squeamish around things like blood and gore. But that distinction both goes to Mother and Prim, as Healing injuries from the minor to the very grievous is their profession. One of life's ironies, I suppose. I don't think I would last that long in the Hunger Games. Animals I can take down, but fellow human beings? Besides, District 12 has only ever had two Victors in 73 years of competition, so my personal tolerance for violence would probably be rendered moot, anyhow.

Slinging the game bag over my shoulder, and fetching a basket of strawberries from the ground, I head out of the wood and stealthily crawl under the chain-link fence to enter back into District 12. I cross quickly through the Seam, bypassing the illegal black market known as the Hob. I'll make most of my sales there today, but first I have a few more important calls, as I cross over the Town-Seam line.

The border really separates the working poor of the Seam (of which I am a member) from the Merchant class of Town. I rarely cross over the line, as I can likely only count on one hand the number of Merchants I do business with. Most would not be above calling the Peacekeepers on a Seam brat trying to hawk illegal game. Hunting inside or outside of the fence is technically forbidden, but when you have a Head Peacekeeper who so flagrantly ignores his own rules, there is a window for even the lowest on the District 12 totem pole to at least bend them.

My first stop is at the back loading dock of the Bakery. The Baker is a kind man and has developed quite a guilty pleasure for the squirrels I bag. I always trade back here though for, even though the Baker may approve of doing business with me, his Witch of a wife most certainly does not. I am always sure to knock carefully, and only ever allow myself to breathe when the Baker answers the rear door. The Witch has caught me before, and my encounters with her have never been pretty.

So I am surprised when it is neither the Witch nor the Baker who answers the door. Instead, it is their youngest son, out of three boys. His fine head of ashy blonde hair and deep blue eyes... eyes as blue as a sky in summer... peek out from the ajar crack, oddly lighting up when he sees me.

"Good morning, Katniss! Got any squirrels for us today?" His smile is easy and charming, but I don't smile back. I keep my expression blank. All business-like.

Peeta Mellark - that's his name - and I are classmates in the same grade in school, though we have never spoken at all until this very moment. We only interacted once and it was years ago... involving rain, a couple of trash cans, some pigs... and a burnt piece of bread...

I pull two small creatures from my game bag, and Peeta takes them gratefully. He holds one up, inspecting it, as his father surely taught him how to do. "Right in the eye. Clean shot, every time!" he praises.

I nearly gawk at him. His father, the Baker, usually just makes a show of inspecting my squirrels; perhaps he thinks it amuses me. But he never comments on their state specifically. Did Peeta Mellark just... compliment me? I don't know, and know even less how to respond. My social skills are rather underdeveloped, and I prefer it that way. I have never been very good at making friends, or so my baby sister, Primrose, tells me.

"Wait here," Peeta instructs. "I'll get the bread for you." It takes him a little longer than his father, but perhaps his mother is lurking about and he is trying to smuggle it out to me without getting caught? That has happened before with The Baker, though the instances are rare. At last, Peeta returns and pushes two loaves of bread into my arms. One for each squirrel. That's normal.

But what isn't normal is the shape and texture of these breads, as I happen to glance down and get a better look. The texture is more filling, they are slightly larger... and what's more, they're still warm. My eyes shift back to Peeta and I frown.

"This isn't sourdough." The statement comes out a little accusatory, and a tiny part of me wants to hit myself with shame. But it's true, this bread... whatever-it-is is by no means worth two squirrels. Not by a long shot. Besides, the sourdough I receive from the Baker is at least a day old - the products that failed to sell on the previous business day. And that's an optimistic estimate. Sometimes, I receive sourdough that is a day or two away from getting mold - scraps that are on its way out. But this bread... if I didn't know any better, I'd say it came fresh from the oven. No - I know it came fresh from the oven; I can feel the warmth heating my arms.

Peeta shrugs. "We happen to be out of sourdough. And anyway, I thought you might appreciate a nice change."

How very convenient. Peeta probably pulled that lie right out of his rear, and I almost have the juevos to tell him so. But I stop myself. I may be brusque, but I'm not rude, and accusing someone of lying cannot be excused, even for someone as socially cold as me.

My scowl deepens. "Well, then, at least exchange it for something that's a day old or so. I don't take charity." The last of this - a statement of my principles on which I refuse to waver - is delivered flatly, so flat that you can almost hear the THUD when it lands. Peeta now shuffles awkwardly, and I know I've caught him in something. If there is one thing that should be a crime in this district, in my opinion, it's pity.

"Katniss, just take the bread..." he hisses, almost pleadingly. "Don't you at least want Prim to have something hearty?"

He's very clever to invoke the name of my sister - the one person whom I'm certain I love. I must say, it's an impressive guilt trip; he should add some violins for effect. But it's not going to work on me. Not now.

"Primrose will be just fine on sourdough, or anything that isn't just fresh out of the oven!" I snap prissily. I refuse to budge on this point.

Just then, there is a noise coming from somewhere in the Bakery. Peeta jumps and glances furtively behind him. "No time," he whispers. "My mother... just take it and go!"

I certainly don't want to be caught by the Witch - Peeta has made me overstay my welcome enough as it is. With no choice but to surrender this battle, I keep the bread tucked under one arm and flee.

I am still seething as I make my way deeper into Town, on the way to my next trading post. How dare he! How... how dare he! He should know from his father how I trade and what I trade with and what I trade for! Some might argue that I am a little too set in my ways. But any deviation from my established trading agreements - especially when the deviation comes from my customers' end - is, in my view, an act of charity. But I don't see it as charity. I see it as yet another debt I owe someone. People in the Seam take debt and owing someone very seriously. We take pride in upholding our obligations to each other.

What's more, I owe Peeta Mellark - with his coifed hair and schoolboy innocent smile and silver-tongued words! - enough as it is. I will always... regret that I never thanked him for tossing me that bread in the rain. The bread that saved me and my family from starvation. If I didn't know any better, I'd lay money down that he burnt that particular piece of bread on purpose too. I remember hearing a commotion coming from the building that night. Shouting, and the distinct WHAP! of a punch being thrown. Peeta probably risked a beating from his ill-tempered mother just to get that bread to me.

I shake Peeta Mellark from my thoughts as I reach the center of Town. Just off the Justice Building, is the Mayor's mansion. Mayor Granger and his family are almost certainly the wealthiest family in District 12. They'd have to be - he is appointed by the Capitol. Only Haymitch Abernathy - the paunchy, middle-aged drunk who is our only living Victor from the Hunger Games - could possibly rival in their wealth. But he lives in exile high on the hill in Victors Village; we rarely see him.

Like before at the Bakery, I approach the mansion to sell my wares via a side door, inconspicuous and out of the way. A few clipped knocks before the door opens.

Hermione Granger is the Mayor's only daughter. She is very pretty, with sleek brown hair that tumbles in waves down to her shoulders. Deep brown eyes. A full, round face. A straight pair of lips that are striking without the pronouncement from any of the cosmetics that she almost never wears.

That is one of the things I like about Hermione, and stems towards my willingness to trade with her. Even though she and her family are wealth personified, she never flaunts it. For someone who has been raised amongst the elite, and not just of District 12, but of the Capitiol itself, she is refreshingly humble. Unfailingly kind. And authentic - nothing about her has ever come across to me as phony.

Which is why I trade with her the freshet foodstuff I can find - wild strawberries. Hermione's face lights up when she sees the basket in my hand. "They look like a good batch today!" She reaches into the doorway behind her and procures her end of the deal - a crate of medicine. They are more expensive remedies, ones that my mother couldn't afford in the loads she receives fresh off the train from the Capitol.

"I got you everything that my mother doesn't expressly need," Hermione tells me in a rush. She often talks fast, but I have learned to keep up with her - an impressive feat, for someone as taciturn as me. Mayor Granger's wife has been ill for years; I can't remember the last time I saw her at a public District event. When I asked Mother once what ailed the poor woman, she clammed up and refused to tell me. Whatever it is, it must be serious.

Even so, for the first time all day, I find myself smiling. I hardly ever smile - there is not really that much of a reason to, in the hard existence I lead. "Thanks, Hermione!"

"Say hello to your mom and sister for me!" Hermione calls, waving as I take my leave with the medicine.