The realization hits me like a punch in the gut during one of my wrestling matches. Across the crowd of sixteens, I see Katniss having a similar reaction. Stunned, she begins to slump downward so that the boy next to her has to clutch her arm to support her.

No…it can't be right…is has to be a mistake…

But it's not a mistake. In a daze I watch as little Primrose, tiny, frail, and innocent, makes her way up to the stage. Eyes wide, pale as a sheet, fingers squeezed into fists. She couldn't be more than twelve. This is probably her first reaping. And I know Katniss would never in a million years let her sign up for tesserae. So she could have only had one slip of paper put in the drawing. One small, insignificant slip among a sea of slips. The slightest chance anyone could have. And still she was chosen.

The crowd is groaning gloomily. No one thinks it's fair when a twelve-year-old gets chosen. But through the murmuring din I hear one frantic voice rise above the others.

"Prim!" The strange, tortured wail seems alien coming from Katniss. She is usually so calm, so strong. She stumbles up to the stage, the crowd parting so that she can pass, and plants herself in front of her sister.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" she chokes out.

A second punch in the gut. No…

I am frozen in place. The crowd has gone silent. Katniss stands stock still. No one has volunteered to take a tribute's place in District 12 for so long that the shock of the moment causes temporary confusion. Effie Trinket babbles something about introducing the chosen tribute and then asking for volunteers, but Mayor Undersee interrupts her.

"What does it matter?" he says gruffly, with sadness in his voice. "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

No! Don't let her! I shout inside my head. But she is already mounting the stage while her little sister screams, true, anguishing, screams and pulls uselessly on Katniss's sleeves. Katniss tries to tug away, her expression hard, her voice cold. Gale materializes from the crowd and effortlessly plucks a writhing Prim off the ground. He murmurs something to Katniss, and when he turns back into the crowd, the pain in his eyes is plain.

Katniss bravely ascends the stairs, head held high. Effie prattles excitedly. "That's the spirit of the Games!"

I clench my teeth. I loathe her.

Now Effie is asking Katniss her name. Katniss answers loud and clear, but it's easy to see that she's fighting to keep her voice even.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" Now Effie is asking us all to applaud for our newest tribute. And not one of us does.

Effie peers out across the crowd nervously. We stare back at her, and the silence is a roar. With our silence, we are voicing our disproval. We do not think this is right. And we refuse to pretend to support it.

Now I am aware that the people around me are doing something else. Far different from applauding. They are pressing their three middle fingers to their lips and then extending their hands out to Katniss. It's a salute of the greatest solemnity. It's only occasionally used in our district, usually at funerals. To say goodbye. As an expression of love. And thanks. And respect. Without a second thought, I press my fingers to my lips and repeat the gesture, wordlessly saying all the things I never said to her, never had the courage to voice.

Suddenly, Haymitch drunkenly stumbles up to Katniss, throwing his arm around her and shouting stupidly. I can just imagine how his breath smells. Then he points directly to a camera and tumbles off the stage, out cold.

As Haymitch is heaved onto a stretcher, Effie Trinket is trying to straighten her crooked wig and regain our attention at the same time. She announces that it's time to choose the boy tribute. She plunges one hand into the boys' bowl with the other hand on her wig and quickly snatches a slip of paper at random.

"Peeta Mellark!"