I know what I am to do. I just don't know who it will condemn. My lazy fingers drift over the piano, numb to the sound when a key is struck, feeling detached entirely. It doesn't matter. The piece laid on the rack has always eluded my ability. Untold ages ago, Felix Mendelssohn wrote elaborate and joyful dances between the hands and I haven't managed to pin down the emotion behind this work. I would practice except that I'm plagued by what is to come this afternoon.

Several notes tone their hollow resonance, all sounding flat and identical in light of my distress. I stare at the polished, black frame. After all these years of practice, my whole life, the instrument just looks like a box of wood today. A nervous sigh escapes my lips. Standing up, glancing over my dress, I check for the nth time to make sure there are no dust splotches or stains on the white fabric, elaborately stitched together, a simple, elegant outfit. My light hair is cradled into a silken curtain by a pink ribbon, just slightly leaning to one side; my mother is a fantastic hair-dresser, even though she rarely feels well enough to set foot on our porch, much less go to official functions.

I take the basement staircase up and then round the wall, taking the first floor stairs to the second floor, and duck quietly back into my room for fear of waking my mother again. The songbird pin is tucked near the rear corner of my dresser's top drawer, hardly ever finding its way out. My mother once said it was my aunt's, that she would have wanted me to have it. I never knew her, though.

Smudges wipe away with the rag between my fingers, removing fingerprints from the last time I had it out. The oil had been collecting dust, but now, the golden bird gleams in the light, its wings reaching out to a stately ring, nearly regal; and yet somehow it's almost mischievous. I'll need it today.

I look at myself in the mirror and see my eyebrows, light as they are, hunched with worry, marring my otherwise plainly-pretty face. Deep breaths only exaggerate my anxiety. How am I going to do this? They convinced me, but the turmoil inside still churns.

A soft knock draws me out of these thoughts. It came from the back of the house. Descending the stairs, my eyes chance closing, lips release another slow sigh to calm the storm inside. It works for now, well enough that I can make the trade. Almost to the back door, I stop and grab an envelope from a kitchen drawer where the money is kept.

My expectations are met by Gale and Katniss outside; he, tall and lanky, Katniss smaller, though much more welcome. If there was ever anyone I'd consider talking to about this, it would be her. Katniss is the closest thing to a friend I have. It's hard to make friends when most of District 12's kids resent you for having more to eat than they ever do. Several years back, I had realized how right some of the kids were, even if they can be jerks about it.

Gale breaks the ice, his two words dripping with sarcasm, "Pretty dress."

I glance at him. His sneer darkens. Gale was one of those kids. I grimace at first, but force a smile through my disgust, "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?" As the words creep out, I realize that it would prove the spiteful kids wrong if I was selected, show them that even the mayor's daughter is in the Reaping.

Picking up the loose thread, Gale tugs, "You won't be going to the Capitol. What can you have? Five entries?" He scowls, "I had six when I was just twelve years old."

I look down pulling my lips back between my teeth. Katniss interjects, "That's not her fault."

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is."

I thrust the envelope toward Katniss and she hands me a basketful of strawberries, my father's favorite treat. My face is blushing, burning a murky shade as my fingers find the doorknob. "Good luck, Katniss," my voice reflects more strength than I feel.

She calls back quietly, "You too," just before the door clicks into place.

I have the presence of mind to set the strawberries on the counter before my shaking hands drop the basket. Leaning against the counter for support, waves of anger flow through my chest, threatening to well tears up in my eyes.

How dare Gale! Who is he to be angry at me, as though I have done anything to make things the way they are? If he only knew! If he only knew what I am willing to do to change things! A firestorm rises from some dark place within; my will forges to the task. I can do this. I will do this and even if I'm selected, I'll face the music!