I was born in the year of the Eighty-Second Hunger Games. Six years earlier, my parents won the third Quarter Quell, the ending of which remains a mystery to Panem. According to the stories, District Three messed up, and so, Panem has no footage of the ending of the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games—and there have been no answers as to why so many tributes survived those Games.

I discovered what happened a long time ago.

The rebels of District Thirteen tried to retrieve the tributes from the Quarter Quell, and although they were, at first, successful, the Capitol caught up with them. "An epic battle in the skies," Haymitch always told me.

Mother would glare at him and reprimand, "Don't make it sound like it was a good thing, Haymitch."

It wasn't like I'd ever think of it as a good thing, because Haymitch always told the story how it was. How the hovercrafts crashed, how the Capitol held people at gunpoint, how some rebels died. Epic battle of the skies though it may have been, it still always felt like a horror story to me. On some nights, when my imagination got the better of me, it kept me up at night, hardly able to come up with any idea of how horrible it probably was like to be there that day.

"The Capitol was merciful," Father said to me, that night he heard me tossing and turning from the hall. He wiped my tear-streaked face. "They let us live."

"They made you have us," I said.

Father kissed my forehead. "And the world is a better place with all of you in it."

I smiled at him as he left my room that night, but deep down, I knew that life would be easier if Mother and Father never had children.

Six years after the Games, my parents had me. A year after I was born, District Twelve got its fourth victor: Ara Flemmin. Ara was sixteen when she won the Games. Claudius Templesmith liked calling her silent but deadly. She was right at home in the arena of poison and other deadly substances, having done some study on that with someone in Twelve. Now thirty-two and still unmarried, Ara learned from Haymitch and my parents.

Another six years after, Halse Bush—now twenty-seven—won the Games. Cocky and charming, Halse was the type of victor Panem liked to see. He was the image of youth and adolescence. Halse acted like he ruled the world. The older viewers liked to compare him to Finnick Odair. Much like Finnick, Halse has a string of admirers in the Capitol.

Paolin Haber was the most recent victor for District Twelve. He won the Games at seventeen—seven years younger than Halse. Haymitch often praised his style. He still does, when he watches the replays for future tributes. (Haymitch, alcoholic though he still may be, has taken his mentoring duties much more seriously at times; when the drinking gets too bad, Mother and Father step in as mentors.) Paolin was a fast learner and just fast in general. He was agile, with reflexes that could contest my mother's, and that's saying something. Lean but strong, Paolin was an underdog in his Games. Nobody really expected him to win.

"Tara."

I look up to the doorway. Mother stands there, a pile of laundry in her arms. I'd seen pictures of Mother as a young girl, and she hardly looked any different. There were lines on her face, of course—how could you live through the things she's lived through without having lines?—but essentially, she looked no different. It was still always a bit disorienting to see my mother's old pictures, though; she wasn't Mother yet.

"Yes?"

Mother adjusts her grasp on the laundry basket. "Would you mind putting Ruth to bed? I think she needs a song tonight, but I'm trying to finish the laundry—"

"No, I got it," I say, standing up. I know why Ruth needs a song tonight, and I would need one, too, if I were her age.

Although the Capitol basically threw money at us every month, Mother refused to hire any help. Father said that she liked to keep misery all to herself. And anyway, I thought Mother was happy that way: feeling responsible for something. Not being always aware that the Capitol had ruined her life. When she worked, she could forget that. She could lose herself in that misery, and regardless of how depressing that sounds, it works. It keeps her sane.

I walk down the hallway to my sister's room. Ruth is eight, my only sister, and named after my mother's mother. We had two brothers: Matzo, who is fourteen, and Kelton, who is eleven and named after my father's father. The thing about Ruth and her name is that it is so close to "Rue". There are a number of times when Mother has slipped and accidentally called her Rue, the name of the tribute who Mother watched die in her Games. Ruth has understood it. She doesn't question it, and she responds to it if anybody calls her that. It's funny, because she looks nothing like Rue, who was dark-skinned and small with brown eyes and brown hair. Ruth is blonde and blue-eyed, like my father. And for an eight year old, she's remarkably tall and lean. I've heard people say she'd be a contender in the Games, which is a frightening idea.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when they open, the sun will rise

Here it's safe, and here it's warm,
And here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you

Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes, and let your troubles lay
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away

Here it's safe, and here it's warm,
And here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you

Here is the place where I love you

When I finish, Ruth has already fallen asleep. I brush the hair from her eyes. She will be the last of my siblings who will be in the reaping. The thought of it terrifies me. I will not be there to protect her. When she is twelve, I will be twenty-one and well out of the reaping. My brothers, although they would be eighteen and fifteen would probably volunteer for her, but they could not without costing their own lives. On my part, at least, I would volunteer to keep any of them alive, even if it meant my own. Still, if Ruth is reaped, she will be ready, of course.

It is against the rules, but my mother has trained us anyway. All of us know how to swim. We can shoot. (Of course, nobody can shoot like Katniss Everdeen.) We can set up traps. We know how to survive. I just wish that none of us will have to need it, but for my family, the odds have never been in our favour.