Note: All characters and settings, and the concept of the Hunger Games, belong to Suzanne Collins. This story is a retelling of Suzanne Collins' book The Hunger Games, from one of her characters' perspective, so obviously some dialogue and plot points will be the same. Credit for that goes to her, I'm just imagining Peeta's perspective of the events.

Chapter 1

I open my eyes to a grey morning. A chill sits over the room but I abandon the warmth of the threadbare blanket and get dressed for the day. It's quiet up here, which allows me to hear movement downstairs in the bakery. It's only dawn but getting up with the sun is considered late in this household.

As I pull my shoes on, I glance out the window. It's difficult to tell what kind of day it will be. Although it's grey now, the sun could end up shining, or it could be smothered by clouds. At the same time, the future is also very certain. Several families will mourn the loss of a child tonight. The question is just whose.

In some respects, Reaping Day is like any other. We rise early and get on with our daily tasks at the bakery. My father gives us instructions as to what we need to prepare for the day. Barric and Kane knead the dough. The oven is turned on, the display shelves dusted. I feed the pigs, sweep the floor. My mother's harsh voice echoes around the walls. As usual. We fall into our everyday routine, but in other ways Reaping Day could not weigh heavier on our shoulders. We treat this morning like any other, but reminders are everywhere. From the front window of the shop, I can see that the streets are deserted. Usually, the miners would be making their way to work right now. Each year, orders for bread are also dismally low on this day — people don't tend to leave their houses before two, when the reaping takes place, and appetites are understandably low afterwards.

The tension in District 12 is palpable. Even though my family and I belong to the better-off part of the district, no one is really omitted from the Hunger Games. Not the children — whose names are entered for the reaping — or the families, who fear losing one of their own every year. The only ones who have nothing to lose are the ones who have already lost it all. The ones whose hearts have hardened over time. Or, I suppose, the ones whose hearts were never tender to begin with. I refrain from thinking about my mother as the latter case. Instead, my thoughts wander to those whose names have been entered for reaping. My name is in there five times. Others have probably been forced to enter more than ten times that much. Disgust fills me as I think about it. May the odds be ever in your favour, the Capitol tells us. Well, how can they be, when there are just five slips with my name, whereas the name Katniss Everdeen will be entered twenty times?

The casual appearance of Katniss' name in my thoughts startles me. Apart from our brief interaction years ago, I have hardly come into contact with her. Countless times, I've been tempted to sit next to her in the cafeteria, or to invite her to work together in class, but I can't quite work up the nerve to talk to her for fear of ending up like my father did with her mother. Unnoticed. Forgotten. My eyes fall on the cakes and cookies on display; they bring Katniss's little sister, Primrose, to mind. She always stops to admire them. More than once, I've wished I could give them all to her, just to see Prim's dazzling smile, which in turn brings a light to Katniss's eyes.

A knock at the back door causes my thoughts to scatter. I lean the broom against the counter and open the door to see a familiar face. Gale Hawthorne stands there, a squirrel at his belt. He must have been up before the baker to have gotten here so early.

"Good morning, Gale," I say. He looks surprised that I know his name. He opens his mouth, but I interrupt. "I'll get my father."

I fetch the baker. As they talk in hushed voices, so my mother won't overhear, I finish my chores. Of course I know Gale Hawthorne, partly because of his reputation at school, and mostly because of the favour Katniss holds for him. There is some resentment in my heart, but I try not to go looking for it. After all, he has helped Katniss and her family stay alive. She would have survived through her own skill, but the woods must be safer with someone to watch out for you.

My father trades a freshly-baked loaf for the squirrel. With a quiet 'good luck', he closes the door. He holds up the squirrel. "Clean shot," he says.

"Not through the eye, though," I say with a small smile. He returns it as we both think of Katniss, and the first time I admitted my feelings for her to my father.

"Back to work," he replies, and I return to my station.

The streets mostly remain bare throughout the morning. A few customers stop by. Some only come to say good luck. By midday, my brothers and I are dismissed from our duties. Of my two older brothers, Kane is still eligible for reaping. But it's mandatory for everyone to attend, so we all set about getting ready for slaughter. I see my mother weave a silken ribbon through her hair, the only strand of silk we own. I put on my best shirt and straighten the collar, shine my shoes and comb my hair.

Time to head for the square.

Cameras surround the place when we get there. As per tradition, all the buildings have been decked with glaring celebratory banners. Onstage, in similarly vivid colours, stands Effie Trinket, exchanging words with the mayor. The stage has been set up in front of the Justice Building, which peers down at us. At all the justice that is about to be had in the next hour. Children file into the designated space, lining up according to age. I join the sixteen-year-old boys along with Kane. Familiar faces surround me. I glance at each one and wonder how many times their names are entered today.

The reaping begins with the mayor's speech at two o'clock sharp. My eyes travel to Katniss, her little sister. Their mother stands at the fringes of the square. Even from this distance, I can see the anxiety in her eyes. My own family is somewhere in the crowd. Are they worried for me? Or is it some comfort that the odds truly are in my favour?

Mayor Undersee begins listing previous winners from District 12. The list consists of only two names. One of those names is up there at the moment, intoxicated and incomprehensible. Despite Haymitch Abernathy's antics, a grim air smothers us all. It tightens its grip as the mayor draws attention away from Haymitch and lets Effie Trinket take the stage. Effie bounces to the podium, chirps the Hunger Games catchphrase — "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!" — and makes her way to one of the two large glass bowls occupying the stage. The girls' names.

I exhale deeply, hoping for Katniss's safety. Let it not be her. She has suffered so much already. Guilt stabs at me — by wishing her safety, I wish another's doom — but I keep wishing, keep hoping.

And it works. Because Effie Trinket pulls out a slip, walks back to the podium and reads, "Primrose Everdeen!"