The warm, soft summer air wafted from the cracked window all the way to my bed. The scent wrapped me in its clean embrace and made me think pleasant thoughts of past summers, when the big oak tree in my backyard carried as many leaves as it could hold on its long, elaborate branches. My mother would sit on the back porch and knit while my father and I played catch with my brother and sister. Our black-and-white dog would run around us and pick up the ball whenever anyone dropped it. Then we would laugh when he would run away with the ball in his mouth, as if to say, "Come and get me!"

But I quickly remind myself that those days are over. I'm reminded every day, especially when she bursts through the door every morning that I don't wake up on time. Like today.

"Ad, get your lazy ass up right now! The laundry doesn't do itself, you know!" Miss Metta shouted at me from behind my bedroom door.

I groan.

"And you better start right now, before I get in there and slap you out of bed!" I didn't move a muscle until I heard her footsteps stomping away from my door and down the stairs. Then I flip the covers off my legs and step out of bed.

And then I remember: today is Reaping Day.

I shoot out of bed and strip off my pajamas. I reach into my little chest of drawers and pull out the dress I've selected for this year's Reaping, a plain black button-down with a collar around the neck and white flowers embroidered on the hem. I put it on fast as lightning, and slipped on my shoes as I raced down the stairs. When I arrived in the kitchen, Miss Metta was sitting at the table, drinking water and reading the newspaper. The Panem Paper is the only existing newspaper left in the country, since District 3 has become so prominent with its technology. They manufacture our electronics, so now everyone has mobile phones and portable tablets. You can read the local and national news for free.

It's not that Miss Metta isn't "with it" in the technology sense, it's just that she's poor. When she could no longer afford to pay her last maid, she killed her. I was sent to Miss Metta as a foster child, and she just started making me work for no pay. So basically I'm a slave. But not according to the authorities. According to them (and Miss Metta), I'm a part-time aid that cares for her fatally sick daughter while she works across the district at an office building. Not surprisingly, all this is totally and utterly false. Miss Metta has no job, and she has no daughter. She never even married. She's just a lonely witch who delights in making me do impossible tasks meant for a husband, like painting the roof and cleaning the gutters. I also do all the standard tasks, such as cooking, cleaning, laundry, and the like.

She's always dreadfully afraid of the Reapings. She's always terrified that I will be chosen to serve as a tribute in the Hunger Games. And if that ever happens, she'll be left alone.

All alone.

So today, I have to remind her of the Reaping.

"Good morning, Miss Metta," I say with a little curtsey, trying my best to be agreeable.

She smirks. "Mornin', you little punk. Now where's my breakfast? I'm hungry."

I smile back with equal smugness. "Oh, I don't have time to make you breakfast today, Miss Metta."

"Why the hell not?" she snaps back at me.

"Because today is Reaping Day," I reply with a smile that would surely split my face in half.

I could swear I saw her whole expression change from annoyed to terrified in less than a second, but she instantly regained her composure and told me, "Well, you better head down to the Gathering Square, then. I'll be there in a bit. But you better not be picked, alright?

"Yes, Miss Metta."

"And you better not have put your name in for charity tesserae, do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Metta."

"Are you lying to me? You better not be lying to me."

"No, Miss Metta."

"Good. Now get your ass down there. And don't be late."

"Yes Miss Metta."

"Well, GO!"