Getting Lucky Isn't Always A Good Thing
My game bag hit the ground with a slam. Mom stirred in her bed. "Go back to sleep, Ma." I whispered. "I'm just making breakfast." I threw open every cupboard in the kitchen, just to prove my point. That was me, Hawthorne Everdeen, always trying to make my point. Even it wasn't a real point. I never made breakfast, so I wasn't taking the benefit of the doubt and hoping that my mom would believe me. But it wasn't like I would get in trouble. My parents had always been rebels. I threw my bag up onto the table and pulled out the contents. Three rabbits, a fox, and two doves. The doves weren't food. I had found them tangled in mesh in the woods. The fact that I had shot them was only for their own good. I hate seeing innocent things suffer. As I wrapped the dead birds in some cloth, the master bedroom door creaked. "Dad." I said. He smiled. "Morning." he said. "I see someone was up early." Dad laughed. He was used to it. For one thing, he had been the one who had taught me how to hunt. And he was Peeta Mellark, for goodness' sake. He had beaten all odds. He had conquered all obstacles. He had won the Hunger Games. Twice. I laid the doves on the counter and turned to face my dad. "Shut up."
