It doesn't take long to find my family in the crowd. They're near the outside of the clutter, clearly looking for me. As soon as I'm spotted, my mother wraps her arms around me and pulls me in for a hug. Another pair of arms snake around me; my sister, Noe. An encouraging slap on the back indicates my dad.

As soon as I'm released, my mother's eyes travel through the throng of teenagers, already cordoned off into their age groups. "You look out for him in that crowd, Noe," she says to my sister. At eighteen, Noe is ever so slightly taller than I am, but has the same unruly brown hair and dark eyes. Usually calm and responsible, today she looks a nervous wreck. I suppose that's another thing we have in common.

She doesn't say a word to my mother, and just hugs me again. "I can't wait until this is over," she admits, her voice muffled because her face is pressed into my shoulder. "My last Reaping."

I can't imagine how it must feel. She must be the only eighteen-year-old in the district with her name only entered seven times. My family never signed us up for tesserae, although I took it last year for Blaire's family.

My parents mutter their agreement, nervously glancing up at the Reaping balls on stage. After today, they'll only have one child to worry about losing.

I still have another two years of this. So does Blaire. And when our baby grows up . . . If our baby grows up . . .

I snap myself out of my thoughts and back to reality. Now isn't the time to think about that.

I wince and pull away. Noe hugs my mother, and then my father, but I don't give them a second glance. I'm trying to find Blaire in the crowd as Noe says her goodbyes, and my parents wish us the best of luck. Without another word, we traipse off to join our peers, silently confident that the odds will be ever in our favour.

. . . Did I really just repeat that stupid phrase?

Hemmed in with all the other sixteens, I'm overwhelmed with a sudden desire to escape. The amount of equally nervous, sweating, terrified people pressed against me is too much to handle. I feel the urge to shove all the others out of my way, jump the ropes cordoning us off, and high-tail it towards the gates. With all the Peacemakers concentrated here, I probably could scale the wall and make an easy break for it. I could be gone before anyone noticed I was missing. I could start a new life in the forest, or whatever lies beyond my district, eating berries and nuts and hunting wild rabbits.

Yeah, right. Running away would mean leaving Blaire, and that's the last thing I want to do.

There are only three people on stage, when there should be four. One is our Mayor, whom I've never really had any contact with before, and who is currently delivering her speech on stage, that I'm intentionally zoning out on. Beside her is our representitive, a man named Gabriel who is somewhat new to our District. Apparently, he isn't fond of his last name, because he never uses it - he's just "Gabriel", and that's the most informal thing about him. Despite being from the very colourful Capitol, he matches District Six exactly with his black suit, silver hair, and grey skin. Every year, is voice is monotonous as he routinely tells us that representing Six is such a huge honour for him. But it's not quite time for that yet.

Only one of our past victors is standing on stage, the infamous Brass Maddox. I've seen her on this stage every year since I was small, but it's still impossible for me to imagine someone so skinny and frail as her winning the Games. She was strong in her teens, though, and it wasn't until a few years after she came home that she started using a drug called 'morphling'. Today her eyes, as always, are large and almost completely black, and she looks more than a little bit lost. She has the look of an addict, and it's no secret that she is one.

I search the crowd for Blaire, but she's lost in the sea of teenage girls, too small to stand out. Defeated, I turn back to the stage again in time to see the Mayor finish her speech and hand the microphone off to Gabriel. He starts talking, but I tune it out, noticing that once again there is an empty space to the left of him where the other mentor should be.

In the history of the Hunger Games, we have only had three victors. After all, we aren't exactly at an advantage when it comes to survival. Unlike tributes from 10 and 11, who spend their entire childhoods learning about food, we learn about trains. While tributes from 2 and 4 grow up learning combat skills, all we know is how to build transport for the Captiol. Two of those victors, Brass included, won well before I was even born. The other living victor is a younger boy called Skipper, who only won two years ago. He's most certainly alive, but nowhere to be seen.

One of the little twelve year olds nearby starts crying, spurring on the younger kids in the audience to do the same. Their shrieks pierce through the polite applause as Gabriel begins his speech, peering at the crowd over his thick-rimmed glasses.

I want to scream out, too. I want to tell him to please shut up. None of us gathered around, waiting to find out if we're about to lose our brothers or sisters or girlfriendsl none of us care about what he has to say. "Just pick the name!" I want to yell, but I don't. "Just pick the name so we can go home!"

And pick the name he does, reaching into the girl's bowl first, rummaging around for a while before extracting a slip of paper. His eyes flick down to it for only a second before fixing on the huge group of girls, clutching each other, radiating fear.

"Noe Abbott!" he announces, his thin mouth curving into a smirk. "Come on up! You're our lucky girl."

My breath catches in my throat. Nobody moves.

"Noe Abbott?" he repeats after a period of silence, glancing back at the card to check he got the name right. All heads swivel towards my sister, standing straight and confident, eyes focused on the ground as the words sink in. The girls around her start to push her towards the stage and I glare at them, but nobody seems to notice.

I don't understand what's happening. Her name was in the mandatory seven times, no more than that. This is her last year, the last year she ever has to worry about this until she has children of her own. And now what chance does she have? District 6 is not a strong contender, and we never have been. From the look on Noe's face I can tell that her thoughts are something along the same lines as mine.

Slowly, she comes to her senses and begins to walk towards the stage, staring dead ahead with determination, as though just making her way to stand beside Gabriel is a huge effort. It probably is. Noe looks out over the crowd, her hands trembling slightly, eyes eventually wandering to the cameras that are trained on her. She waits a few seconds for somebody to volunteer for her, but nobody does. Why would anyone take the place of an eighteen year old?

Up on the stage, Gabriel shakes her hand. Noe gives her winning smile and without a prompt, the crowd erupt into applause. People force themselves to cheer, masking out the sound of my mother sobbing somewhere in the mass of grimy people.

I want to call out to her, too. Shout encouragement, or regret, or pain, but nothing comes out. I stand still in the mass of stiff bodies, all of them celebrating for her. I can hear my mother wailing near the back where we left her, and I have a picture of my father trying to comfort her as he always does. Without meaning to, I reach out to the stage as though I could grab Noe and pull her back to me. But I'm nowhere near her, and my hand falls limply down by my side again.

The cheering doesn't stop. For minutes, people call out their delight and clap until their palms are raw, a mix of relief and anger in everyone's eyes. Most of these people don't know my sister, but I can tell the cheering is to encourage her, not to celebrate her being chosen. That would be disgusting of them. Eventually, Gabriel has to ask them to settle down, which they eventually do.

"And now to pick our boy tribute," he says, his tone one of barely-concealed disinterest. It's no wonder our tributes never get enough sponsors when all of our coverage must be as boring as watching paint dry, while other districts' presenters are happy and animated, technicolour from head to toe.

Gabriel's hand disappears into the bowl again. Up on stage, my sister's smile is unwavering, hands clasped in front of her. I have no idea how she's being so brave. All I can hear is my mother still crying as everyone goes quiet. At eighteen years old, tall, and fairly strong, we all know that Noe has a fighting chance.

Delayed relief numbs the horror weighing down on my chest. Noe is my eighteen year old sister, not my sixteen year old, pregnant sister. I know that Blaire is going to be safe this year.

Instead of reading the name from the slip of paper he pulled out, Gabriel's expressionless face becomes creased with concern, causing the crowd to stir and mutter. He calls the Mayor over to look, and she does, pulling away while nodding and looking solemn. For a split second, Gabriel's graphite eyes flick out to the back of the crowd, and without following his gaze I know he's looking at my parents again, his expression blank but eyes lit. Then, he seems to remember what he's supposed to be doing, and pulls himself together.

The way he wets his lips a little, searches the crowd of boys and then fixes his gaze on a camera; the way the Mayor bites her lip and glues her eyes to the ground. Because of that, and before he even has to say it, I know my name is on that slip of paper.

"Carmine," he pauses for dramatic effect and my heart sinks. "Abbot."

And this time, the crowd does not cheer.