Chapter One
Prim sat at the base of the bed, staring hollowly at the tiny TV screen. It's only one slip, she told herself, pulling the coarse sheets snugly around her body. One slip in thousands.
Her sister had more slips. Twenty this year, and the odds were still considered low for Katniss. I should've taken the tesserae so she wouldn't have to. I was selfish.
In the kitchen, separated from the bedroom by a paper-thin wall, the collision of wood against metal alerted her to activity in the kitchen. From the smell in the air, she could only assume her mother was making stew from the rabbit Katniss had shot last night.
Prim's stomach snarled, as hollow as her heart. The Intergalactic Games were only a few weeks away, and the Reaping was this afternoon. Her first Reaping.
She shivered.
On the television, the High Council had convened. There was a representative from each of the alien planets, plus one for the regular Earth humans. President Snow was just stepping up to the podium to make his pre-Reaping announcements when her mother called from the kitchen. "Prim, come and eat before you have to get ready."
"Coming, Mom." The girl hurried to the kitchen, almost stepping on Buttercup before reaching the table. Despite her carelessness, the cat trotted over and pressed his furry face against her ankle. Buttercup's body vibrated with his purr as her mother set the rabbit stew in front of her. "Katniss caught this yesterday?" Prim verified, keeping her voice low, as if Peacekeepers were just going to bust down their door for her sister's daily poaching.
Her mother, a harried woman who'd once belonged to the miniscule merchant class of District Twelve, turned to her, seeming frazzled by her question. "Yesterday . . . Yes, that's right."
Prim bit her lip. What must it be like, knowing both her children are at risk now? She turned back to her stew and buried a spoon in the brown mush, bringing it to her lips. It had been a few weeks since she'd gone hungry, a few weeks since Katniss had returned three days in a row with nothing more than a squirrel and two fish, and though they had enough stored now to hold out for several days should Katniss return empty-handed, the memory of hunger was enough to make Prim's table manners falter. She shoveled the stew into her mouth as if it was the last meal she'd ever eat.
If Katniss gets Reaped, it might be. She shook off the thought. Even with the tesserae, the odds of her sister being chosen were minimal.
The stew was good—much better than the stuff they sometimes got from Greasy Sae in the winter. Everyone ate better on Reaping Day, when they could. It was a last meal of sorts, though only two families would have to shut their windows and weep for their lost children, siblings, friends.
Earth hadn't won the Intergalactic Games in years. According to Katniss, humans just weren't equipped to deal with their alien competitors, particularly unmodified humans like those who lived on Earth. Like us, Prim added mentally, scraping the remaining chunks from her bowl and letting them slide down her throat. When she was done, she got up and walked her dish over to the sink, where her mother was washing dishes. "Aren't you going to eat, Mom?"
Her mother glanced down at her. Her face was thin, though not quite as ragged and hollow as it had been in the months after Dad had died. "No . . ." Her mother seemed to retreat within herself. "I'm not hungry right now."
Prim frowned. Mom ate when Katniss was around, but apart from that, she seldom took food. Sometimes, Prim wondered whether she denied her hunger out of guilt, or because she didn't want to take food from her daughters' plates. "Mom, you have to eat."
The woman shook her head, engrossed in wiping a spot from one of the dishes. "No, not right now. I'll eat after the Reaping, I promise."
That was typical, too: delaying the inevitable. But pushing her would've likely made her shut down even more, and Prim didn't want that, either, so she let it go.
"There's an outfit for you on the bed. The yellow one."
Prim hurried to the bedroom, wondering when her mother had snuck in and left clothes for her. Two outfits sat at the foot of the bed, carefully folded. Prim recognized the smaller one from Katniss's first year at the Reaping, but the other one was new to her. Mom's old clothes, she realized with a jolt, running her hand down the silky fabric. From the size, the blue dress had to be for Katniss.
Prim shuddered, thoughts scattering in different directions like roaches from the light. Mom never brings out her old clothes. Is Katniss going to get Reaped? Why do I have to wear the oldest stuff? She shook her head to clear it, plucking the yellow blouse and dotted skirt from the bed and stripping her pajamas off. The fabric moved like water over her skin, so maybe this was one of her mother's old outfits, after all. I'm being ridiculous. Neither of us are going to get Reaped.
But someone would. Two people, two kids. Perhaps someone she knew. But not her or Katniss. Of course not.
The door creaked open. Midmorning light poured into the house, too bright for this dark day. Then, like a dark-haired angel, Katniss stepped through the door, holding the camouflaged duffle bag she used to store game. It slid across the rotting wood of the floor as she dragged it.
Prim darted over to her sister. "Katniss!"
Her sister scooped her up in her arms as easily as she might've picked up Buttercup. A rare smile crossed Katniss's face as she set her down. "Prim," she said. "Guess what I brought."
Prim closed her eyes, standing on her tiptoes as if scanning the universe for some mystical answer. "Strawberries?"
"Guess again."
"Rabbit?"
"Nope." Katniss's voice rose with something like excitement. Something from the Hob, maybe?
"Um . . ." Prim opened her eyes, sinking down to her normal height again. "I don't know."
Her sister pulled a pale, yellowish lump from her game bag. Prim gasped. "Bakery bread!"
"Got it just for you. Gale and I did good this morning. Bring this to Mom."
Prim took the loaf, tracing her thumbs over the crisp crust with a sort of wonder. Since her sister did most of the trading, and because such foods were so rare in the Seam, the bakery bread was a luxury. The last time they'd had it had been on her birthday, when Katniss had hunted dusk till dawn and traded for the quality bread.
Then again, this occasion wasn't a celebration so much as an execution. Multiple winners were allowed, of course—as opposed to the previous system, in which only twenty-four human tributes participated and only one came out alive. Rather than individual victors, they now had winning teams. If Earth managed to win, any survivors on the Earth team could return home as heroes.
Those that didn't survive returned home as corpses.
"Mom made rabbit stew," Prim said, returning to Katniss. "Do you want some?"
Survival had always been a priority with Katniss. Unlike their mother, Katniss never turned up an opportunity to eat, even when food was abundant beyond the fence, as it was this time of year. So her sister sat down with a bowl of rabbit stew and downed it as if she wasn't saving room for bread.
"Primrose," her mother called. "Come on, let's do your hair."
She hurried over to the chair where her mother had set up a veritable gold mine of hair products and makeup. It was perhaps her mother's one indulgence, the one thing she asked for on those rare days where they had enough money to spare for such frivolities.
"Tuck in your tail, little duck," Katniss called to her as she crossed the room. Blushing, Prim stuffed the back of her blouse in her skirt, quacking like the duck she'd been labeled as.
Her mother's fingers were deft with her hair, coiling it into twin braids like the braid Katniss usually wore for hunting. Prim closed her eyes, just letting her mother's hands dance over her scalp, focusing on the sensation instead of what she was preparing for.
When Prim heard her sister crawling into the little wooden washtub, though, fear crept in where calm had been. Her breath came quicker, her fingers curling around the edge of the chair as her mother continued tying knots in her hair.
What if I do get Reaped?
"I don't feel so good," she whispered. Her mother's hands paused, then continued braiding.
"Just a little longer, all right?"
She bit her lip, tasting iron against her tongue. Her sister's voice pierced through the silence. "You won't get Reaped."
"But Katniss—"
The sixteen-year-old knelt down in front of the chair, her gray eyes severe. "You won't get Reaped," she repeated, her voice clipped. "And even if you did, I wouldn't let them take you away. Understand?"
Prim's eyes burned with nascent tears. How? she wondered. How could she keep me from the Games if they called my name? An ache bloomed in her throat, like the precursor to a respiratory disease. "Katniss . . ."
Another smile, this one pained. "Don't worry about a thing, little duck. You've only got one slip in there. Your odds of being picked are so slim, there's no point in worrying about it."
"I know, but . . ." A tremor choked off her words, the tears finally leaking from the corners of her eyes. I can't do this. I can't go into the Reaping. I'm useless. She sniffed, as if that would suck the emotions back inside, where they belonged.
Katniss rested a hand on her head, still smiling. "You won't get Reaped. I promise."
Prim managed to nod. "Okay . . ."
Her sister stood up, her pale blue dress trailing behind her like a mermaid's tail, and walked over to the door. "Ready to go?"
Her mother wrapped a hair binder around her left braid, then freed her hair. Grateful for the chance to stand, Prim rose from the chair and wiped her arm across her still-moist face. "Ready," she said hoarsely.
"All right, you two." Her mother offered them a brittle smile. "I'll be watching from the edge of the square. Stay strong."
The words seemed almost meaningless, on this day where hearing one's name meant a brutal death. It was as if she was saying it because she couldn't say, "You'll be fine."
"Come on, Prim," her sister said, extending a hand toward her. She hurried to catch up, then took Katniss's warm, callused hand. Katniss was always warm, as if there was a fire burning inside her that spread out and reached for her skin. Prim kept close, pressing her side against her sister's to harvest some of that fire for herself, in case her name was called, in case she had to go into the arena. Fire warms, she thought. But fire also kills.
The air was warm, but not unbearably humid. If it had been any other day, Prim might've looked forward to walking through the middle of town, might've looked forward to stopping by the bakery and admiring the elegant, frosted cakes they'd never be able to afford, or smelling fresh fruit they only purchased for special occasions. If it had been any other day.
Instead, they stood in a line of tight-packed bodies, some reeking of unwashed rags, some so drenched in cologne and perfume that the air rolling off their backs clogged her trachea. Heat radiated from everyone's skin, mixing with the sour smell of sweat, until the air turned putrid. It was almost a relief when they reached the line where the Peacekeepers pricked their fingers to account for their presence.
"Line up with the other twelve-year-olds," said a Peacekeeper with an ashy gray mustache, just as he jabbed the needle into her index finger. Prim bit her lip, the sudden pain bringing fresh tears to her eyes. She hesitated, waiting for her sister to do the same.
Katniss showed no pain, showed no emotion at all. Her face was closed off, like a street barred by Peacekeepers, and all the warmth had faded from her expression. In that moment, she was not the kind, maternal figure that had provided for them for years, but a hunter, skilled and stealthy and focused.
"Let's go, Prim. I'll take you there."
Prim winced at the robotic quality of her sister's voice, lowering her eyes to the pavement. Katniss towed her along until they reached the far end of the plaza, where the other twelve-year-olds stood, heads down, eyes hollow. "Stay here until I find you," Katniss said, dropping her hand. "I'll meet up with you when it's over."
I have to be strong, Prim thought, nodding once as she tried to hold back another round of tears. As soon as her sister disappeared in the throng, Prim's heart started racing, blood pulsing under the surface. Her breath came in ragged pants, like air being pushed through a hose. She barely heard it when the mayor started reciting the updated Treaty of Treason. According to her mother, it had been edited years ago, when the humans-only Hunger Games had been changed to the Intergalactic Games. There was a bunch of stuff about the uprising of the districts, called the Dark Days, as well as new additions made regarding the formation of the Intergalactic Alliance and the subsequent Intergalactic Games.
When the mayor finished reading, Effie Trinket, this year's escort for the Intergalactic Games, stepped up to the podium. Several minutes passed as she trilled about her joy in being here, until Haymitch, the only remaining District Twelve survivor of the Intergalactic Games, staggered up to her and wrapped a hairy arm around her shoulders. Prim stared, distaste warring with the butterflies in her stomach until she felt like she was going to throw up.
"Ladies first," Effie announced, fixing her wig as several people pulled Haymitch to the back of the stage. The words snapped Prim back into focus, and she looked up to see the Capitol woman flounce over to side of the stage and stick one hand in the drawings spheres.
Not me, Prim prayed. It can't be me. Katniss promised.
Effie pulled a single slip of paper from the glass sphere and walked back over to the microphone, unfolding the slip as she went.
Not me. Not Katniss. Not anyone I know. Please . . .
Effie smiled and spoke into the microphone, her voice as clear and sharp as a bell being struck. When she spoke the name, Prim's knees buckled under her, like wood splintering under a heavy load.
In the silence of the plaza, Prim started screaming.