Trilla's insistent call wakes me up, and I haul myself off the hay to attend to her. I know it's Trilla because, as the name suggests, her lowing exhibits a noticeable quaver. I dump a good portion of the hormone-laced feed into the manger and look on as she begins to munch away, snuffling with contentment. If only she knew.
If only I knew, for that matter. Our cattle are raised for quick reproduction, which means that the provided food is loaded with reproduction accelerators and growth hormones. In the bygone days, cattle ate grass, but we know better now. The capitol-supplied feed is far superior to any grass, no matter how green or tall. But sometimes I wonder what's inside those evidently tasty morsels. The packages don't have ingredients lists. One time I asked the mayor, and he threatened to call the peacekeepers if I asked again, so I never did.
Just the thought of the peacekeepers makes me shudder. I'm no slouch when it comes to muscles, due to my strenuous daily routine raising the cattle, but these guys make me feel like a small dwarf in comparison. All of them carry powerful assault rifles with enough power to stop a charging bull. They realized from experience that they needed such strong weaponry. I won't get into the details.
I realize that Trilla's trough is empty. I grab the nearby pail and head for the faucet, fed by the irrigation trench that winds it way all the way to the faraway mountain springs. I really have to thank district 4 for building the water treatment plant that ensures that our running water is free of diseases and other contamination. The people in the Smellchain have it far worse.
The Smellchain is not a very endearing name for that half of district 10, but there's nothing endearing there at all, so the name fits well. I've been there exactly five times in my life, and today will be the last. The most prominent buildings there are the three slaughterhouse buildings, near the eastern edge of the district. The smell from the slaughterhouses is so pervasive that I sometimes catch a whiff of it while I'm outside with the cows, five or six miles away. Sadly, I've lived here for eighteen years, so I've mostly gotten used to it. Visitors to the district often take a moment to wrinkle their noses or gag, much to the amusement of onlookers, when they first catch the scent. It's funny, in a really disgusting way.
As I bid Trilla goodbye and head to the ranch house for breakfast, I hear my father yelling at me. "Hey Dal! I thought I told you to stop naming your cows," he barks, clearly annoyed. He's been telling me to stop naming the cows for years, yet they're the only friends I have here. That's why I love exercising them so much.
"Sure," I respond. He looks at me skeptically, but doesn't say anything, waving me into the warm kitchen, where my mother is just finishing up the food preparations.
"Remember Dal," she calls over her shoulder, wielding a spoon with unusual enthusiasm, "today is reaping day. May the odds be ever in your favor!"
I'm not sure if she wants me to be reaped or not, honestly. She's always bragged to others about my muscles and impressive skills with animals, so a part of me wonders if she wants me to get reaped because she believes I have a really good chance of winning. I've often heard her and my father arguing heatedly about money, when they thought I couldn't hear them. It is a real concern, of course, because I think I'd rather die in the games than work in a Smellchain slaughterhouse. Just the thought of the slaughterhouse makes the food taste worse, so I hastily finish up and put on my reaping clothes. They're really scratchy and I hate wearing them, but they look high-quality, and that is the important thing.
I open up the barn door, releasing the dozen cows inside. I start shouting to herd them into an amorphous blob, and as they come obediently to my side, I lead them around to get them warmed up. For the next few hours, I exercise the cattle like Dad taught me when I was a child. It's been a bit harder since I injured my leg, but I've mostly gotten used to it, and I only have a slight limp when moving. The cows enjoy this very much; I hear them mooing and my mind is receptive to their happy emotions. My mother often brags to others about my instinctual knowledge of animal feelings. I've demonstrated it several times, to the general amazement of others, but really, I don't know why people make such a big deal out of it. You just have to work with the cattle enough, and not distract yourself with other thoughts, and their minds will touch yours. And then it is just a matter of letting your mind touch theirs. How can that be so hard to do?
As I jog around the small exercise ground allocated to my family, I hear the unmistakable thrum of the fog horn calling us to the Smellchain common ground. I nod at the cattle, while encouraging them to head back to the barn, and they agree with me. I quickly shut them inside the barn, then make the half-hour journey to the square on foot with a few peers from neighboring ranches. We have set outearly enough that the roads are not yet congested, so we make good time. From bitter experience, I know that being late to a reaping is a painful mistake to make; the peacekeepers are quite skilled with the bullhide whips.
I arrive at the square, hearing the increasingly-loud clamour of voices from the direction I came. The justice building stands in a prominent position, the capital seal highlighted starkly against the drab gray background of the other nearby buildings. The district escort, a capitol-born man named Jewel Thaddeus, stands proudly upon a wheeled podium, grinning at the audience while showing off his balance by rolling the podium in circles around the justice building unassisted. He's done that every year since I can remember and doesn't seem to realize that people are no longer impressed. A few of the younger kids beg their parents to lift them up above the growing crowd so they can see him better. Their innocence will go away in a few years, I think synically to myself.
I approach a table, signing my name and heading to the section for the eighteen-year-olds. I try and cram in with some friends from the Ranch, but to no avail. I finally sidle over to the kids from the Smellchain, wrinkling my nose in disgust and turning away. Even a person who was completely ignorant about District 10's wealth gap issues can tell that I shouldn't be with them. Their best clothes are the ones that have the fewest patches, the ones that look the least ugly. Mine are the ones that actually look nice. And they appear far leaner than me; working long hours at a slaughterhouse with ten-minute breaks for lunch and dinner will do that to a person. I shudder inwardly, glad I'm not one of them.
Finally the old clock strikes a single, solitary BONG that crashes thunderously above the din of food vendors, haggling, gambling and bickering. Yes, the people who have money to spare actually gamble on who will be being sent to their almost-certain deaths. Twelve to one that it's a thirteen-year-old boy; fifty to one that there will be a tribute volunteer. It's revolting, and yet there's nothing that I can do to stop it. Jewel Thaddeus's voice, amplified by an electric microphone, booms out grandeously, "Welcome to the District 10 reaping of the 74th hunger games! May the odds be ever in your favor!"
Without further preamble, he wheels the podium to the bowl with the female names, and quickly grabs one. It's a small mercy that he doesn't drag out the reapings in an attempt to increase the drama. He's an expedient, efficient kind of man, always eager to move on to the next event on the agenda. His voice yells out jubilantly, "Jill Pailar!"
Nothing happens for a second or two. Then I see a girl detach herself from a gaggle of Smellchain friends and totter up to the podium, her face white with shock. I already know she is dead meat when the games begin. Her underfed frame, her wobbling legs, the way she's barely breathing, they all portend doom. She's already falling apart and this is just the reaping. Thaddeus then draws a name from the boys' bowl, and I can swear he grins evilly at me before reading off, "Dallas Mooer!"
I take a step forward.