I wake up, a cold sweat dripping down my face. 'Oh no…' I think to myself, my stomach twisting in knots. 'The Reaping…' A small tear drops down my cheek as I sit up in bed, rubbing my arms to keep warm. 'And on my birthday, too…' A warm and comforting smell comes from the kitchen, and my stomach growls in hunger. I laugh, dragging my feet toward the food. Even when someone I know is about to be taken to be slaughtered, my stomach ignores it for the sake of food.

In the kitchen, sitting over a cauldron bubbling with cabbage soup, is my best friend and the man I live with, Germany. I first met him when I came to this District. I was running from the harsh living of District 12, where there was never enough food and the only food you could get was too expensive or too rotten to eat. We were both fleeing from there, and we bumped into each other in the forest. Literally.

I was turning around a tree, totally lost, when I felt another body impact with mine. Since I am kind of girly, even though I'm a guy, I screamed, and threw my arms up to protect myself. Instead of a beating from the Peace Keepers, I got a rough shove into the bushes. Germany was there, covering my mouth with his rough and dirt-covered hand, shushing me. A hover craft appeared from thin air, pausing for a second above our hiding place, and then moving on.

We became fast friends after that. He taught me how to hunt, and I showed him how to cook what he caught. We both live in District 11 now, where living's a little better, you're never short of work, and everyone besides the Peace Keepers are friendly. I've even seen Germany smile a few times over the years, which he hardly ever does. And never on Reapings.

Now, he is sitting stoically over the fire, mixing the morning's soup with a wooden spoon made from bamboo. His face turns up to me, and I can tall he didn't sleep at all during the night. Or the night before that. His eyelids are drooping, dark circles have begun to form underneath those blue eyes of his, and his posture is slumped. I can tell he's worried that one of us will be called today, due to all the Tesea we've had to order.

Germany almost never lets me buy any, because he knows that it's just one more chance for the Capitol to abduct me for their sick Games, but I go behind his back anyway. I figure that if he's going, I could masquerade as a woman and go with him, that way I could be beside my best friend when I die, or he dies.

But I try to banish these thoughts from my mind as I take my seat on the floor, directly across from the silent man. The pot bubbles and boils as my stomach growls impatiently again. "Well, let's get something into you, Italy," Germany says, laughing a little. But it's just the nerves and lack of sleep that make him chuckle.

"Only if you have some too," I say, crossing my arms over my shoulders. He's gone without food a few times, when it was scarce, and without my knowing. He knows it gets on my nerves, and thankfully, he doesn't seem to have the energy to argue. He silently pours the soup into two bowls, a little worse for the wear but not too bad. We eat in the silence of the morning, watching the sun rise over the far off horizon that can be seen over the plains of wheat.

"Are you going to try it again?" he asks me suddenly. I know what he means.

"Yes. If you're going, then I am too, Germany." For the past few Reapings, I've dressed like a girl. If Germany's name gets called, then I have a chance to get called. If I don't, then I can volunteer. Volunteering is almost unheard of, even by family and close friends. I don't see why, but it is. I mean, if I had the opportunity to go and die in Germany's place, I would take it in a heartbeat.

"You know I don't like it. What if I don't get called and you do?" He is staring at me in worry.

"Then you go one, living life as normal person, and go find a nice girl to settle down with. You are eighteen after all, and this will be your last Reaping. Your life won't be any different without me in it." I say this matter-of-factly, scraping the bottom of my bowl.

"That's not tr—" he starts, but the clanging of the large bell in the town square cuts him off.

Six o'clock in the morning. It's time to get ready. 'The big Reaping starts in an hour, and we don't want miss that action,' I think to myself as I rise and start to dress.

Germany doesn't finish what he was saying, but downs the rest of the bowl, and starts to don his best clothes. They aren't much better than his normal garb; a pair of hardy, woven tan pants and a simple shift-like shirt.

I, on the other hand, get to slip on a blue dress that I save for such occasions. A bright green ribbon goes around the waist, and another ties up my short, red hair. A single curl escapes its confines, but that's come to be known as my trademark.

We both turn to study each other at the same time, sadness apparent on both of our faces. Suddenly, Germany does something he's never done to me before; he rushes up and envelopes me in a hug, his thick arms wrapping so far around my slim body that they touch the sides opposite.

"You don't have to do this for me…" he whispers in my ear.

"I'm not. I'm doing it for me. Work in the fields would be boring without you around," I joke. We both know that it isn't true. I would be devastated without him around, and we are both aware of that.

He releases me as fast as he grabbed me, and we both walk solemnly out the door. A slight breeze ruffles the skirt of my tattered dress, and I blush a little as I feel a breeze in an unnatural place.

We weave through the streets and rows of houses that circle the town square, almost like a circular field. The people around us, who are normally busting up with talk and chatter. Are suddenly quiet and depressed. Ever since that one Tribute died, Rue, everyone has had trouble smiling. I took over her position in the treetops, and I now signal the end of the day, but we all know it's not the same.

Before I even know it, we are in the square, two groups of chairs set up close to a wooden stage, and plenty of room is left in the back for loved ones who were too old to compete. I have no one to back me up, as does Germany, since we both came from a different District. But as soon as this Reaping is over, we can kick back and relax back there, watching with dread as another fresh lamb would be lead to the slaughter house.

We take our places in the rows of chairs, his on the boys' side, and me with the girls. Everyone knew my true gender, and they even teased me about dressing as a girl for the Reaping, but no one stopped me or reported me. I was thankful to them for that; if I was ever caught, they might send me to the Games against my will, or maybe even flog me, if they were feeling merciful.

I snap back to the present as a voice booms out over the speakers, "Good morning, District 11!" I see the speaker on stage, and my eyes widen with disgust. The man, France Bonnefoy, wear only a pair of dress shorts and a button-up shirt that is open. Coming from the Capitol, he is dressed up in the weirdest fashion. In his chin-length, blond hair, he has a few bits and bobbles, such as a bronze leaf here and a jewel there. His face looks like it was smashed into a bag of flour, it's so white.

"Welcome to this year's annual Reaping! You all know the rules, but I'll give them to you anyway. One girl and one boy will be chosen to…" I kind of sit in a daze, not really listening, as he repeats the same thing he has every year. He must have memorized it by now.

I turn my attention to the ones sitting behind him; one is Mayor Baldwin, who sits rigid in an uncomfortable suit his balding head already sweating, even though it's not hot out yet. Next to him are the two Tributes who have won in previous years, and the years that have passed don't appear to have been kind to them. One is a woman, and the other a man. The woman's long, blond hair is tether behind her in a matted mess by a single strip of rawhide, and her clothes are full of holes, as if she's worn the same thing every day. I recognize her as Ms. Hungary, who was able to win by her ferocity and whit. Both seem to have been drained from her.

The man next to her is Mr. Austria, who survived by surrounding himself with allies, who were half of the remaining tributes after the bloodbath, and then leading them off into a huge struggle with the other side and hiding while everyone died around him. His garb is as simple as Ms. Hungary's, but he just sits in his seat, his head in his hands as he rocks back and forth. I can't tell if he's nervous, crying, or suffering from a hangover. As far as I know, the few days surrounding a Reaping are the only ones when he drinks anything other than tea. From the small drops of water that leak from his hands, I think it's the middle choice.

"And may the odds be forever in your favor!" squeaks France as he flounces off to the slips of paper with the Reaping candidates on them. I think I hear him mumble something like, "I'm too pretty to be doing this."

I glance over at Germany; his hair is slicked back, like normal, but his cool and calm composure is out the window. He's sweating, and his eyes are wide with fright. His hands are clutching the seat he's on as if a sudden breeze will knock him clean off.

Even though the normal routine is to read out the girl's name first, France must mess up, because he reaches into the bucket with the boy's names. "And the lucky first tribute is…" France pauses both for dramatic effect, and so he can read the slip of paper.

'Please, please don't let it be Germany…' I pray silently, my hands clasped in my lap. 'Please, anyone but Germany…'

"Germany Beilschmidt!" shouts out France.

My stomach drops, and my body freezes. Germany sits rigidly, his eyes wide in disbelief. He's managed to escape the Reaping so far. Why now? He slowly stands and makes his way to the stage while I'm still staring at his back. His footsteps are shaky and uncertain, and to a practiced eye, he's scared out of his mind. But to everyone else, it looks like he's taking this all in stride as he makes his way to France.

When Germany is lined up on stage, never breaking eye contact with me, France bounds over to the second bucket with the girls' names. As soon as France blurts out the second name, which I think is Seborga, I stand up and shout, "I volunteer!" Seborga doesn't even have time to stand up before I'm making my way to the stage.

I'm halfway doing this for Germany and myself, but I'm also doing this for her. Even though I would have volunteered even if it had been my worst enemy, I have known Seborga for a while. We have treetop duty together, and sometimes share jokes. Her family is tearing up in thankfulness as I take my place in front of France. He smells worse than he looks, with his heavy perfume and everything.

He looks at me, startled, as he asks, "And what's your name?"

I try to make my voice sounds a girly as possible as I say, "Italy Vargas, sir."

"And I that your sister over there, Italy?" he asks, pointing to Seborga who is still in shock.

"She and I are friends, but not sisters." I send a quick glance over to Germany, but France doesn't notice.

"Well, I'm sure he appreciates it," he says quickly, turning back to the cameras as if his beauty being plastered all over Panem is more important. "And there you have it, folks! Your District 11 Tributes!" He waves his hand toward us, showing us off to the world, expecting the rest of the District to clap loudly.

But no one does. Instead, they copy what Katniss did in the previous Hunger Games; they press the three middle fingers of their lefts hands to their lips, and then extend them toward us. Instead of being comforted by this, I am left scared witless.

I have just volunteered myself to get slaughtered for the enjoyment of the rest of the nation.