Chapter 1: The Farm

I guess skipping stones across a creek bed isn't the most useful thing I could be doing with my time. However, it does have a certain calming effect. Picking up a large, flat stone I send it flying across the water. It bounds over the rippling surface a few times before thudding against a tree. Said tree is an ancient, gnarled thing. It's been my favourite rock throwing target for years now, as evidenced by the numerous dents and broken branches. Sometimes I almost feel sorry for it. My aim has steadily improved and it's been getting a battering from all the chunks of rock I've hit it with.

I switch things up, too. On occasion, I will use the slingshot I made for killing field mice to hurl the stones at the unfortunate old thing. Usually I only do that when I would really rather be hurling stones at someone rather than something. A Peacekeeper, or pompous Capitolite, for example.

This creek is my sacred place. The only place where I can truly forget about everything in the outside world, even if only for a few hours. No one ever comes down to this secluded little spot, except me.

Letting my eyes wander, I try my best to ignore the fact that I should have been home a good hour ago, instead choosing to spend a little while longer – even though I know that my family will be worrying about me. A trout comes bubbling to the surface. I watch it with vague interest. It stares right back at me, not afraid in the slightest. The Capitol made fishing outside of District Four illegal decades ago. It has made the fish around here grow bold. They are very beautiful, though. They're a part of what makes this place so special to me. The trout and the other fish are my friends.

Living on a farm all my life, I never really got a chance to meet other children. All of our neighbours are much older. As such, my only real companions have been the fish and the draught horses. The biggest draught horse, Pickle, is a cranky old mare. She would as soon bite your hand off as let you near her. The others aren't so bad, but Pickle is especially fun to taunt. I find endless amusement in trying to sneak up on her and give her a fright.

My parents are not amused by that particular game in the slightest, constantly telling me that one day I will get kicked, or even killed. They think I'm a nuisance, most of the time, and usually give me all the pointless jobs on the farm. Feeding the horses, weeding fields or killing mice to stop them eating the grain.

Really, I have no right to complain. I know my lot is a much better deal than that given to those from some of the outer districts. There, the people have even less than we do. We at the least have a roof over our heads, and a meagre portion of the crops we grow to keep our own table stocked. I know that we should be grateful, but it is hard.

Sighing, I pick myself up off the edge of the creek bed. The sun is starting to sink below the horizon, and I should really get home. Both sides of the creek are covered with seemingly endless fields of grain. Wheat, oats, rye. You name it, it's growing out there. Hidden by the tall grain stalks a few kilometres away is my house. It's not much. Barely enough to fit my parents, my baby sister and myself. Still – it's home.

The last few weeks have been hell. Our shipment of grain has been behind schedule, and my parents have been working double shifts. I feel a small twinge of guilt. I should be helping, but I escaped this afternoon to spend some time at my creek.

I have a good reason, though. Tomorrow will be my third reaping for the annual Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games are a yearly event in Panem. One boy and one girl from each of the twelve districts is sent to the Capitol as a tribute. Of those twenty-four children, only one will get to go home again. The other twenty-three will die violent deaths within a Capitol engineered arena, at each others hands. The one who kills the most and somehow survives the horror is crowned as the victor, and paraded through the districts to keep the rest of us subservient. The reaping is the part of the games during which the tributes for this atrocity are selected. All the children between twelve and eighteen in each district will have one chance per reaping they have been through of being selected.

Of course, you can also take tesserae. A tesserae puts another slip in the giant glass jar with your name on it. However, it also provides you or a loved one with a years supply of food from the Capitol.

This year I'm fourteen, and three of the slips in that giant glass jar will be for me. The very thought gives me the chills. At least I haven't had to take tesserae, like so many other children in the district are sure to have done. Not that I'm overly comforted by that fact. There are still three chances out of however many that tomorrow, I will be sent to die.

I guess there's no point in agonising over it. It's not like I have any influence on the vagaries of chance. Shrugging mentally, I brush dirt off my clothes before turning towards the massive field of wheat which lies behind me. It's exactly like so many others here in district nine – a vast expanse of tall swaying stalks. I lose myself in it, feeling completely in my element. If there was one thing I did know, it was how to find my way through a field. Not much to boast about, I guess. Still – it was something.

Ever since I could walk, I have been out in the fields – running, playing, working. The gentle march of the seasons and the endless fields of grain are my whole life. Our small farm and the hills surrounding it mark the borders of my world.

To be perfectly honest, I almost wish the world did stop at those imaginary lines. That all things outside of them couldn't influence my life, or the lives of my family. Alas, it is not so. Peacekeeper visits aren't exactly common out here. The Peacekeepers have a whole lot of farms to patrol, so visiting just one is usually somewhat out of the way. Said visits aren't rare enough to let us forget just who holds the reins of power in Panem, though. The Capitols reach is all encompassing, even out here in the middle of nowhere.

After about twenty minutes of weaving my way through fields of wheat, I finally find my way to the farmhouse. An ancient Tudor styled building, it looks impressive in the way that an old worn down warrior does. Like, once upon a time, it was something. I mean, if we could afford to get the leaky roof fixed and replace the handful of broken windows, it would be a lot better. As it is, it just looks dilapidated. Shrugging mentally, I nudge the back door open and make my way into the kitchen.

My mud-soaked lace-up boots find their way into the pile by the door, and my jacket takes it place on the coat rack. Mum would kill me if I trailed mud all through the house. It's not worth my life, so I make sure to leave things where they belong.

It's only my parents, myself and my baby sister living here. My grandmother had died last winter. Life expectancy in the districts is one of those numbers we don't get to see, but I imagine it's pretty terrible. If only we had had medicine, doctors, hospitals. Chances are that she need not have died. Except that we live under a Capitol who sees such things as frivolous. A waste of it's money.

Like many others, I really hate the Capitol. The people who live there, the rules they force on the rest of us. Even the buildings themselves. I think we would be a whole lot better off without them.

I can hear my mum in the next room. She's crying. I know why, too. Five years ago, my cousin lost her life in the Hunger Games. With the reaping tomorrow, I can only imagine her thoughts. That I will be picked. That this time she will lose her own child.

Sometimes, I think it terrifies her more than it terrifies me. Which really is saying something. I'm the one who has to face the prospect of potentially being chosen to die for the amusement of the Capitol in some perverted gladiatorial match. Even if it was a very tiny chance.

The year my cousin had been chosen, my mother forbade me to watch the games.

We were technically required to watch them, to not do so was a punishable offence. That said, out here in District Nine it was a very hard thing to keep track of. With so many farms that required constant tending, the Peacekeepers could hardly keep track of all of us for the several weeks that the games often took. If they did find out though, the punishments were often severe.

Even with the risk that the Peacekeepers would find out, she hadn't wanted me to see my cousin Hannah die. We all knew that she would. District Nine was one of the worst performing districts in Panem in the Games, with only District Twelve having less victors than our measly two. Personally though, I think she was more worried that I would see what my cousin was forced to do. Hannah had placed third that year. She hadn't made it that far in the games with clean hands and a clean conscience, I can assure you.

I found out later that she had been killed by the male career tribute from District Four. They had shot her down with a bow, then left her to bleed to death. The thought makes my shudder even now. I'm glad I never had to see it.

Careful to make as much noise as possible, I make my way into the kitchen. It's fairly small, though the homely smells and bushels of fresh vegetables hanging from the ceiling make it feel alive. My mother looks up, wiping away the tears and trying to look as though she hadn't just been crying. I don't comment on it. At the end of the day, it's kinder to her to pretend that she was fine.

My mum is fairly plain looking, though to me she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Her brown hair has streaks of grey through it, and her face is wrinkled from years of hardship. It's her eyes that really stand out. The grey colour looks anything but dead. It looks more like tiny slivers of silver, shining out for the world to see.

My dad tells me that I have the same eyes as her, though I don't believe it. The sheer strength of life that you can see in her eyes is almost scary.

She is currently wearing an old homespun dress, stained from hours in the kitchen and out in the fields. Similar at least in make to my own breeches and shirt.

"Leo, where have you been," she questions, her tone scolding, "I was expecting you home hours ago. Your father was looking for you high and low."

I look away guiltily. It's not my fault that they failed to look in the one place they knew I would be.

"I was at the creek, Mum... Like usual. Where did you expect I was?"

The brief expression of worry was not lost on Leo. "Oh, never mind. Go and play with your sister, she has been asking for you."

I nod, before heading towards the stairs. I have no idea what my parents had been thinking when they named me. Other than my mane of completely unruly tawny-blonde hair, I was nothing like my namesake. A lion was supposed to be fierce and strong, where I was small and weak. There had only been one time that I'd seen a real lion, and it had been terrifying. The big cats usually stuck to the wilds and kept away from our farm, though sometimes they got hungry.

My sister is four years old. She thinks it's hilarious pulling on my hair and calling me kitty cat. I don't mind though. I love her to bits. I would do anything for Sandy, and she knows it. That's why when she jumps on me the minute I go into her room, I just smile and allow it.

"Kitty! Mummy says you have to go away tomorrow, and that you might not come back," Sandy says, the panic evident in her voice.

I smile reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'll come back. No matter what."

Relief floods Sandy's face. She had obviously been worrying about this all day, if the way she was clinging to me right now was any indication. The little girl had probably thought that I wouldn't want to come back. That for some reason, I didn't love her. The chances of being picked tomorrow are tiny, so I don't feel bad that I might be lying to her.

Even I know that I wouldn't stand a chance in the Hunger Games.

Later that night while I'm trying to get to sleep, sick with worry about the impending reaping, that promise keeps me awake. No matter what happens tomorrow, I will come back. I gave my word.