"Johanna Mason." The name is perfectly enunciated, spoken clearly, the Capitol accent in her voice prominent.

No. No. Not me. It can't be me. It can't be me.

I am staring at this woman, this well-dressed woman standing on a stage in front of a glass reaping ball and holding a slip of paper and saying my name. Someone behind me shoves my back a little, and I trip forward.

"Come along now, dear," chirps the reader of my paper slip. I am pretty sure her name is Dalta Limberg. My brain is fuzzy, unfocused. I can only form one clear thought.

I am about to enter the Hunger Games.

My mind snaps to full awareness. I take a deep breath. I am about to be thrown into an arena with twenty-three other kids to fight to the death. I don't want to die. I will probably die. Unless I have a plan. And I don't. Maybe I should be able to think of something. But I can't. Not now, while I stumble across the square of District 7.

Dalta Limberg extends one of her hands to me as I near the stage. I reach up and grasp it like a lifeline, mounting the steps. Her three-inch-long magenta fingernails dig into my flesh. She steers me toward the center of the stage, then bounces back to the microphone.

"Are there any volunteers?" she inquires, not really expecting an answer. There's dead silence, other than my thumping heartbeat. "Volunteers? No? All right, now for the boys." She bustles over to the boys' reaping ball and sticks her clawed hand in.

Her sharp fingers finally getting hold of a name, she skips back over to the microphone. Her bright blue lips open wide. "Drake Ambert."

A twelve-year-old moves forward with small, echoing steps. Unlike me, he shows no emotion. I wonder what his strategy will be. Dalta Limberg asks for volunteers, but there's no response.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she cheers. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Dalta Limberg spins back around, grabs Drake and me, and marches into the Justice Building. The room I'm led to is paneled with dark wood, and a faint scent of mold hits my nose. The door slams shut behind me. I sink down onto a soft green sofa and try to stay calm.

How could I have been chosen? I guess my tesserae for Gingy and Meg and my dad and me did it. But I'm just fifteen. I was only in there _ times. There were thousands of names.

The door swings open and my little sisters rush in, my father behind them.

Gingy and Meg fling themselves at me, sobbing. I hold them close, saying, "Shhh. It's okay. It'll be okay." My father stands behind them, tears seeping from his eyes.

Gingy lifts her face miserably, her long red curls still tied back in a faded blue ribbon for reaping day. "No, no, no!" she wails. "Johanna, you can't go, don't go, stay with us! Stay home with me..." She buries her face in my old gray reaping dress. I am so glad my sisters are still ten years old, too young for the reaping.

"Johanna, why did you get picked?" cries Meg hopelessly. "Why did they pick you?"

"I don't know, baby," I soothe, rocking her gently in my arms. "I must be special, huh?"

Gingy wipes furiously at her tears, suddenly fierce. "You can win, Johanna. You can come home. I know you can. You're fast—and—and—smart, and you'll be okay, right?"

"She will," whispers Meg. "I… you can do it, Jo."

I smile weakly. I have no chance. There will be so many stronger, better fighters. I have no chance.

My father hustles over and wraps his big arms around me. His coat smells like sawdust and pine needles, the way it always has. I'm hugging him back and trying not to cry. If I do, I'll be labeled as an easy kill, and no one will take notice of me.

Wait.

Maybe that's what I want, no one taking notice of me. No one worrying about my skill. I'll be ignored. I feel a rush of heat, warm as a forest fire, course through me. I have a plan.

I let the tears spill out. I let my emotions engulf me. Yes, I will leave this room and go to the train station with puffy eyes and a red nose. I will be marked as an unimportant target.

I pull away from my father, and stoop to pick up Meg. Balancing her on my hip, I try to soak up every detail of my family. Because I don't know if I'll ever see them again.

A Peacekeeper opens the door and clears his throat loudly.

"I love you," I say softly to Meg and Gingy and my father. They say it back, embracing me. The Peacekeeper jerks his head toward us, and two other white-clothed men step menacingly into the room.

My father is pulled away first, then Meg is wrenched from my grasp. Gingy is bawling and clinging to me, and I'm calling, "It'll be fine, baby. I'll be fine, okay?" and she's screaming and they're pulling her away. The door thuds shut. I really am sobbing now.

A gangly blonde boy walks hesitantly in. I sit up, mop my eyes. "Robert." He and I work at the same lumberyard. We end up eating our lunches together a lot. We're friends, I guess, but only just.

"Hi," he says lamely. "How are you, Johanna?" I just look at him. "Sorry," he grimaces. "You're obviously not doing good."

I have to laugh. "You're right, for once."

He sits beside me, digging in his pocket. "I have something for you." He pulls out a tarnished necklace. I lean closer to see. It's a locket, a coppery little heart on a thin chain. "My mother said I could give it to you. It was hers, when she was little. She wants you to have it."

I take the locket. "Thanks." There are so few gifts in District 7, I can hardly reject this offer.

He shrugs. "It could be your token."

My token? That's the last thing on my mind right now. But I hear myself saying, "Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks, Rob."

He nods uncomfortably.

We sit in silence for a while. There's not much to say. Eventually, a Peacekeeper enters the room.

Robert stands and quickly hugs me. "You take care, Johanna."

Pushing the locket into my pocket, I try to be upbeat as I say, "I guess we'll see." But the words catch in my throat.

He walks out, and my mother's old friend Ida scurries in, glancing nervously at the Peacekeepers. She plunks herself down beside me and opens her arms for an embrace. I don't hesitate before I hug her. Ever since my mother died, Ida has been like an aunt to me and my sisters, welcoming us readily into her heart. I think she rejects not having children of her own.

"Oh, my little Johanna," she croons, stroking my long brown hair. "How did you end up here?" She is asking herself more then me.

My throat is tight, and more tears flow. Ida sighs, touching my face. "Don't worry. You'll be fine." But these are empty, useless lies, and we both know it.

Her hazel eyes are wet as she inspects my face. "You look just like your mother. Right down to the hair and eyes."

"Thank you." I say, surprised. Everyone says my mother was very beautiful, with her bright brown eyes. I had thought my face was plain. But today is full of surprises.

A Peacekeeper struts in, this time accompanied by Dalta Limberg, who impatiently motions Ida out. Ida kisses my forehead and leaves.

Dalta Limberg's voice is excited, bubbly. "Come on, Johanna. Time for the train station!" I follow her through the Justice Building, and she ducks into a room to retrieve Drake. She escorts us to a pair of huge mahogany doors.

I realize there will be cameras here, too. I rub my eyes to make them look even redder. Drake's expression is probably supposed to be I'm a tough guy. Don't mess with me! Doesn't he know that a twelve-year-old couldn't possibly pull that angle off in the Games?

The doors creak open—after all, they're only used once a year—and cameras instantly flash in my face. I squint in the brightness, my lower lip trembling. Dalta Limberg herds us into a car, and we zoom to the train station. I'm too busy worrying if my brief performance was effective to notice much about the ride. The second the vehicle comes to a stop, she pushes us out.