My family and I arrive to the reaping earlier than most. My father, mother, and eldest brother are roped off to the farthest side of the square. I'm led and roped off into a group of other 16-year-olds from the merchant part of District 12. My younger brother, in a different section.

The square slowly starts filling up. I am surrounded by more and more people every time I take notice. Late comers are herded off to the streets where they can watch the reaping on large television screens. I see the mayor and District 12's abnormally cheery escort, who's here to choose the names of this year's tributes, up on the makeshift stage in the middle of the square. But, someone's missing: Haymitch Abernathy, our only living victor. You'd think he'd be eager to show up for this great 'honor', but he's probably passed out in his comfortable home right now, since, after all, he is the district drunk. Wait, no, there he is staggering up the stairs onto the stage, with a bottle of spirits in his hands; he's drunk. No surprise there.

He tries to embrace Effie Trinket, our escort, but is pushed away by her. Haymitch may have the great 'honor' of being victor, but Effie certainly did not want anything more than strict business with him. He was from 'barbaric' District 12, a wealthy victor, but she probably expected someone classier to work with. Besides, Haymitch looked like he hadn't had a good bath for a while. His hair was greasy, he had a five o'clock shadow, food was staining his face, and his clothes looked like they haven't been cleaned in at least five days.

He also looked like he hadn't slept in a while, the dark bags underneath his eyes becoming more prominent with every passing day. Why hadn't he been getting any sleep? He probably had a lush, expensive bed from the Capitol; one that anybody would kill to have, not some rough, squeaky cot that'd been handmade. Oh, well, none of that was my business.

The clock strikes two and the mayor stands up to the podium. He begins a speech about the history of Panem; the Dark Days, the rebellion, all of these things gave us the Hunger Games. He finishes off by saying something about it being both time for repentance and time for thanks. Now, it's time to discover who'll be this year's tributes. Effie Trinket hops up to the podium and gives her signature line.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds, be ever in your favor!" She trots over to the first glass ball saying, "Ladies first!" She starts rolling the ball and every second feels like a decade of the worst torture possible. I look around at the faces surrounding me. Some had their eyes closed, other with theirs wide open, either way they all had the same expression on their faces. Wait, no, not all the same, only similar. All of their faces showed a certain unhappiness. Some were pained, other nervous, most just anxious to get this over with. I search for Katniss and read her expression easily; worried. I instantly think she's worried about Prim, her beloved little sister, the one she's protected with every bit of care she can muster up. I see Katniss turn and look at someone. I follow her view and see she's looking at Gale.

Gale! Of course! Why hadn't I thought about this earlier! Of course, she'd be worried sick about Prim, but she'd be worried about her hunting partner, Gale, too. They were hunting partners, best friends, and maybe even more than that. Something I would never be. I'm just snapping out of my thoughts when I hear Effie Trinket clear her voice and say the name of our girl tribute in a a crystallized, sing-song voice, affected with the capitol accent, "Primrose Everdeen!"

It takes me a moment to register the name in my head. Prim rose Everdeen. Primrose Everdeen! Primrose Everdeen! What? How could this happen? I know for a fact Katniss wouldn't let her take any tesserae, and she was only 12 years old! That meant Prim had her name entered only once. One slip wit her name on it.

I hear screaming. I think it's Prim, but it isn't, because she is climbing onto the stage knees-shaking, white-knuckled, and pale-faced. I turn and try to locate the voice that is so familiar to me. I see people make way for someone and I catch a glimpse of a dark braid.

It's Katniss, and I could feel her hurt and shock at Prim being reaped. I inhale sharply as I watch her run up to the stage and the realization of what she's about to do hits me. I know I should be yelling at her to stop because if she dies, I die, too, but I can only think one thing, Only Katniss would do this. I only think that sentence in my head over and over again., until I hear her voice, "I volunteer as tribute!"

I don't know what happens next. I'm too caught up in my emotions and I'm in a daze. I feel as if the floor was dragged from under my feet and I'm falling, falling into a bottom-less pit . . .

I register a glimpse of someone falling off the stage, giggles, a high pitched voice, heels clattering on the stage then someone behind the podium as if about to speak. I realize it's Effie. And she's about to announce our boy tribute. I desperately hope it is Gale. That way Katniss would be protected and, hey, maybe she could make it home. But, then, she announces, "Peeta Mellark!"