All breath is knocked out of my lungs and my knees begin to tremble.

"Airdura Dimity." His deep voice seems unfitting to form the soft syllables of my name. I feel my feet march forward but I have no idea what could possibly be making them move. My eyes are trained to the cold stone that forms the town square, hypnotized by its unnaturally smooth surface. One, two, three steps I climb to meet the representative for our District, Boulder Tracks on the stage in front of our Justice building. I jump at the large hand that claps onto my right shoulder. What I assume to be a playful laugh escapes the diaphragm of the large man, but it sounds more like a small round of bombs echoing through the crowd.

"And now for the gentleman." He continues, leaving an icy patch upon my shoulder as his massive hand pulls away. His over-sized feet pound against the fragile linoleum tile that makes up the stage as he makes his way to the glass sphere filled with the names of the boys aged 12 to 18. After a moment of rustling through the slips of paper, Boulder holds up the slip containing the name of the next victim in the 74th annual Hunger Games.

"Baize Holland." I dare to raise my eyes to the crowd, searching for the male tribute to step up and meet his fate along side me. I scan the large sea of kids standing perfectly still, facing me with mixed expressions on their faces. Some hint at relief, that they are safe for one more year, others trying hard to hide their fear for the ones that they love, wanting desperately to be standing by their sides once more. And a select few, like the ones of my mother and father, are trembling in their stance, muffled sobs escaping from their lungs at the sight of their only baby girl standing on that stage. I blink hard against my oncoming tears, determined to appear strong, or rather, not a complete disaster, for the cameras. Luckily, I have the boy to temporarily distract me from the tears as he climbs the stairs opposite me and assumes his position facing the crowd with the hardest look I've ever seen. His dark brown eyes piercing the cameras just a head of us, his brows furrowed so tightly together you would think he had a uni-brow. His jaw is locked firmly and through the light fabric of his dress shirt, you can see that his muscles are flexed completely in response to his tightly clenched hands. At a good six feet, it would be hard to rule him out as anything other than a true threat to the other tributes. It is clear that despite the fact that Boulder towers over Baize by at least a foot in height and is twice his size in muscle, he is hesitant to place his hand upon Baize's shoulder. Nevertheless, he does and beckons me towards him and Baize. Once we meet in the center of the stage, Boulder invites the two of us to shake hands and then follow him into the Justice building. As Baize and I grab hands, I'm overcome with a tingling sensation running from my palms to my fingertips. I suppose he's failed to realize the strength of his grasp, but it is his eyes that frighten me most of all. His intensifying stare does not soften upon meeting mine, which still threaten to leak with tears of fear at any moment. After our stiff shake, Boulder leads us into the dark cool atmosphere of the Justice building where we prepare to say our final good-byes.