As we draw nearer and nearer to the square, Prim's grip on my hand tightens with every step we take. When we are close enough to the square to see the lines of people waiting to be checked in be the Peacekeepers, I hear Prim intake a ragged breath. At the sound of her breath, I grasp her by the shoulders, as Gale did to me just this morning, and kneel down in front of her. I look into her blue eyes filling up with tears and which spill over and wet her dark, thick eyelashes. "Hey, hey little duck, don't cry, don't cry," I move one of my hands from her shoulder to caress her face, "your name is only in that lottery once. There are so many kids here with their names in so, so many more times than yours." She peers at me through the tears, and then she collapses her little body onto mine and hugs me. I slowly stroke her hair and whisper, "Don't you worry, little duck, you are going to be just fine." Then Prim releases me from the shackles of her hug, and I watch her as she dries her face of all her tears, holds her head up high, and without looking back at me, she walks into the check-in line.
What feels like seconds later, I am standing in a group of other 16-year-old girls. I need to know that Prim is with her group, so I stand on my tippy-toes and try my best to peer over the crowd to locate my sister. I see her standing in a vast crowd of other girls her age. She still has her head held high, acting strong. That is my Prim, trying to be brave. I feel anger bubble up in the back of my throat over the fact that my sweet little Prim, still a child, has to be brave at all, that she has to worry about facing death in an arena or not.
I am pulled away from my angry thoughts when I hear harsh taps on the microphone that sits on the porch of the justice building. I look up only to see a woman, in her 30s, dressed in the absolutely gaudy Capitol fashion. She has on a colorful wig, and even more colorful clothes to match. After her startling tap on the microphone, she starts her whole spiel and then we watch a video about the war and why we supposedly have to have the games. And she goes on and on saying the same unmitigated crap she does every single year, until after what seems like ages she finally says, "And what you have all been waiting for, it is time to draw the name of the lucky lady who will be District 12's female tribute." The Capitol lady then walks over to the comically large glass bowl, that holds the fate of every girl in 12, and she theatrically plucks a paper slip from the bowl. She then struts back over to where the mic is positioned on the stage and unnecessarily taps it again, bringing pain to my ears. But, I am so nervous about what name she might utter from her mouth next, I don't even notice. The woman inhales a deep breath and says, "And the female tribute for District 12 is, Primrose Everdeen! Where are darling?" And the next thing I know my entire world is black, and I am already out cold by the time my head hits the dirty, dusty ground of the town square.
