It's the day before the reaping. Obviously, everyone's nervous, about tomorrow, about the weeks to come after, about their brothers, sisters, children, distant relatives, but mostly about themselves. The reaping's a serious and frightening occasion. Even in District 4.

District 4 has it a lot better than most, being a Careers' district. The odds are in most people's favour. If you're reaped, someone bigger, better, stronger and more likely to win will volunteer. It's almost certain.

Almost.

Occasionally they don't. Occasionally, the chosen volunteer tribute doesn't step forward, overcome by sudden doubt or fear.

May the odds be ever in your favour, Annie.

The odds are never in my favour.

I walk as slow as I dare, surveying the street. The market is in full swing, as it is every day. The overwhelming stench of fresh fish stings at my eyes, but I'm used to it.

I eye up the target. The fruit stall that practically keeps me alive. I see the apples, a crate on the side that's unguarded and oh, so tempting. I know I'll have to be quick. After three years of doing the same thing almost every day, the man at the stall – Mr Dylan Brent, a middle-aged, slightly balding, slightly overweight man – is prepared for me. Sometimes.

I dart through the crowds, my small frame twisting through Peacekeepers and civilians alike. The Peacekeepers aren't as bad as some I've heard of from other districts – some are quite nice, actually.

But Peacekeepers are Peacekeepers, and I will never forgive them for what they've done to me.

I reach the stall, my long, dark hair covering my face from recognition. My fingers, dirty from lack of washing, slip towards the crate. One more second . . .

I grab hold of the apple at the exact same time as someone grabs hold of me. Mr Brent lifts me into the air by my collar, choking me, and twists me round, smirking.

'Thought you could catch me out this time?'

I squirm in his grip, but it's no use. Mr Brent must be twice my size and twice as deadly. A crowd starts to form as he drags me towards the Peacekeepers.

Oh, no. No. Not –

I wrench myself away with lightning speed, tossing myself into the startled, unprepared crowd of shoppers. The element of surprise gets me past at least a hundred people, and out the other end of the square, before Peacekeepers start to open fire.

In some districts, the idea of someone being shot down in the middle of the day for stealing an apple is ridiculous. Absurd. In District 4, justice is not so easily found. Criminals are not so easily forgiven. Luckily, though, I know it's coming. The consequences are known well by me and what remains of my family. I dive down, into a tiny backstreet alleyway, and run as fast as my weak, small legs can carry me. Get away from here. Get out.

I stumble back into daylight, blinking, and find myself in the Victors' Village. Glancing around, it looks deserted. I sigh in relief, and run my tongue over the blood-red, juicy apple, before biting into it deeply.

I have nothing to do – I'm not meeting Genevieve until midday. I decide to take a walk, to calm my adrenaline rush. Taking another bite, I turn round.

And take a walk straight into Finnick Odair.

The hard-earned apple is knocked straight out of my hand, and rolls along the floor, now useless with dirt. Finnick Odair's bags, obviously from the market, aren't much luckier, and as they hit the ground the contents tumble out. My immediate instinct is to grab as much as possible and run, but I can't – Finnick's locked his grasp round my wrist.

I look up into the sea-green eyes that the people of Panem know so well, from their intense gaze to their seductive winks. I manage to tear my eyes away from his, and study the rest of him. His natural tan gives his skin a colour I see on many of the fishermen, the ones that spend entire days under the full glare of the sun. His bronze hair is another common trait of the District 4 men, the merchant ones with a little more money than the rest. The rest of us peasants tend to have darker hair, but I'm not sure why. Finnick's face as a whole is perfectly beautiful, so much so that I can't help but feel a slight something stirring. Longing? Jealousy? Admiration?

However, any other emotions are immediately and completely overcome by fear.

'Let me go,' I say quietly, trying to tug my hand away. He smirks and tightens his grip.

'You're the girl at the market. The one that stole from Brent.' Finnick's eyes hold mine once again, and this time I can't look away. They're mysterious, almost scary, as if some hidden secret lies in their depths.

'I said, let me go!' I can't let him take me to the Peacekeepers. Not that it makes much difference anymore. I'm as good as dead, but he doesn't know that.

'Why did you do it?'

I struggle and struggle but Finnick's strength holds me in place. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to remind me that I am at his mercy.

He starts laughing, his eyes lit up and his mouth open wide. He releases me and steps back, wiping a tear from his eye, and looks at me. 'Listen, little girl,' he chuckles. 'I –'

'I'm not a little girl!' It's true. I haven't been a child for a long time, despite my young age. I'm fourteen and able to keep myself from starving and dying. I can't quite say that I protect my family equally well, but I try. My mother, for want of a better word, is a useless cripple. She can't do anything but eat and sit around. So I provide food for her, seeing as she can't get a decent job. Even if she had the ability, nobody wants to employ my family after –

After my brother. The first person in a long time to make a proper, public stand against the Capitol. I'm proud of him, but I guess I'm the only one. Poor, starving, weak and crawling on our knees, the people of the Rock – the area on the edge of the district, set on the precarious cliffs surrounding the beaches that District 4 is so famous for – can barely survive. We live our everyday lives in the hope that Peacekeepers don't smash down our doors. We walk down the streets, praying we won't get attacked by a knife-wielding, hungry man with the mind to take everything we own.

Of course, we aren't the only ones. The Rock is the only part of District 4 living in poverty, but other districts have similar problems, probably on a much larger scale. However, it doesn't make us any less important. But the thing that we inferiors do most is spend every day hurting, hating, wishing that someone would stand up and do something about it.

My brother, Saffron, decided that the someone was him.

I remember that day. I don't think it'll ever leave my mind. I had just left school, and I was taking the route to the Rock that I always take. Passing through the square, I'd seen the market was in full swing, as it was all-day, every day, and then I'd suddenly noticed Saffron. My brother had stepped up on the reaping stage, something that is never taken down in Four. Like a permanent reminder that the Games is here.

Watching, waiting for your name to be drawn. To be a victim.

Anyway, Saff had stood on the stage, and the action in the market then stopped as curious heads turned to him. I remember his speech word for word, his anger and fury and love all mixed into his voice and face. At the time, he hadn't known I was there.

It would've been better if I hadn't been.

I'd watched him in a state of panic. What was he doing? Why? Questions had buzzed round my brain, all of them silenced by his voice ringing out through the hushed square.

'People of District 4,' he'd announced, stepping forward. Nobody had set foot on the stage since last year's Victory Tour, and the large layer of dust had been kicked up by his feet. I remember clenching my fists at my sides, willing myself to keep calm.

'People of District 4,' he'd repeated, 'My name is Saffron Cresta, and I am from what you would call the Rock. I have a mother, a father, and a sister. We live a life that the Capitol describes as "free".'

I'd paused. Waited for him to continue. Agitated.

'Myself? I wouldn't call it free. I would call it a life of danger and oppression. A life where we live in fear of what the authorities could do to us. A life where the only thing that keeps us in line, is the Hunger Games.'

The Hunger Games. The reaping. The tributes. The tesserae. All words that string together and make us at the mercy of the Capitol.

'The Hunger Games is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks.' I'd recognised that quote, from the dull, annually-repeated speech at the reaping. 'But what are we thanking them for? You, as the people of District 4, you don't understand. These are actual children we are training to fight. Innocent children who are brutally murdered by other innocent children, and put on the television for the Capitol audience! We may have been fooled into thinking the Capitol cares about us, but they don't! We are here to give them seafood. District 10 is here to give them livestock. District 8 is here to make them clothing. Everything is for the Capitol! They don't give a damn about us or our health. They want stuff for themselves, and tributes to sponsor. And you know what I want?'

There had been a long pause as even the Peacekeepers had stopped to hear him.

'I want to fight back!'

Finnick shakes my arm slightly, his face slowly coming into focus. 'Hello?' he asked nervously. 'Can you hear me?'

I step back, and look to the floor. 'Sorry. Just – flashback.'

'Well, then, I promise I'll leave you alone from now on.' Finnick's biting back a smirk and I know it.

'Anyway . . .' I look down wistfully at the now-useless, dirty apple. Should I run? Or will he just catch me?

He follows my eyes to the apple on the floor, and smiles, picking up the only bag of his that managed to keep its contents inside. His hand reaches inside. I'm backing away. His eyes flit up and meet mine, paralyzing me with the power of his gaze. Almost everyone in District 4 has the same sea-green eyes, but Finnick Odair's was like watching the ocean itself.

Before I turn and run, he steps forward and presses something into my hand. My fingers automatically close around the cold, smooth surface of an apple. I look up into Finnick's eyes, alarmed, and he murmurs, 'For the one you dropped.'

And then I run.