Chapter Two: The Reaping

Fifty-one years have passed since Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark challenged the Gamemakers and still the Games are held annually. Still more young men and women are sent to their deaths for the entertainment of the privileged few in the Capitol while the Districts mourn their children, their sons and daughters, brothers and sisters. As the day of the Reaping draws closer the peoples' fear is almost palpable on the air, and all they can do is pray that their loved ones will be spared for one more year.

I tried not to think about it. I didn't want to think about all the eligible boys and girls in District Twelve shepherded into the center of the town to await the Capitol representative to call their names. I didn't want to think about the looks on the faces of my neighbours as they heard that their children were condemned. I didn't want to think about the weeks ahead, of having to watch the Games play out on our televisions at home or on the large screen across from the Hall of Justice. I didn't want to think about the knowledge that all those kids, some as young as my own little brother, would be butchered.

I lay awake in bed, trying not to think, concentrating only on the feeling of warmth coming from my brother's back as it pressed against my side. I calculated my chances of having my name drawn in the lottery. I had just turned sixteen in January so my name would be written down on fifteen crisp, white pieces of paper. Not only that, as soon as I turned twelve I took three tessera- one for each member of my family- and have done so yearly to help us keep from starving. With the extra tesserae- and because they are cumulative- my name will be in the lottery another twenty times. Now there is a grand total of thirty-five pieces of paper with Dean Winchester written on them in the reaping balls.

Only a week ago President Ever officially announced the new set of rules for this year's Games- the 125th which means they are also a Quarter Quell- on live television. Sam sat right beside me as we stared at our old, dusty television, his small hand squeezing mine while our father crouched on my other side. All our eyes glued to the President as she picked the neat, square card from its gold ornamental box.

"For the 125th Hunger Games, two male tributes will be chosen from District Twelve, two female tributes will be chosen from District Eleven…" President Ever read the rule change as though it was a list of items to be bought at the market, her tone held no interest or emotion. My heart began to thump wildly in my chest in fear. Now my chances of becoming a tribute had doubled. So had my brother's. I gripped Sam's hand tightly as he peered up at me, his mouth trembling and his green eyes as wide as saucers.

Dad groaned as he stood and to my surprise, pulled both Sam and I into a hug.

"It'll be okay, boys," Dad rumbled, "Don't worry."

Don't worry. All I did after the seal appeared on the television screen and the anthem trumpeted out of the speakers was worry.

I couldn't help but stare at the other boys I passed on the streets or saw coming out of the school building when I went to walk Sam home and wonder if one of them would be picked and if they were, would they ever return?

Sam was terrified of the rapidly approaching Reaping. He had always been susceptible to nightmares and in the weeks leading up to the lottery, woke crying and thrashing every night. All I could do for my brother was hug him and rock him, singing an old song I had learned from our mother under my breath and assure Sam that he was safe, that since he was only twelve his name was on one piece of paper in those reaping balls.

"But what about you?" Sam whispered late at night, his breath tickling my ear.

I would close my eyes and promise.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sammy," I would whisper back to him, "It's my job to take care of you and I'm gonna keep doing just that."

Sam would nod his head and then fall asleep in my arms like he used to do when he had been really little, soothed by my presence and the rhythmic sound of our father's snoring from the bed across the room.

W

Our mother died years ago, when Sam was just six months old. A fire broke out- no one knows exactly how, most think it was caused by a spark from a stove igniting the coal dust that is ground into everything- and spread quickly through the houses in the Seam. I remember my father shaking me awake in the middle of the night, shoving my swaddled brother into my arms, telling me to run outside as fast as I could. The house was full smoke and flames licked hungrily at our meager possessions. Dad went back to help Mom get out. I stumbled out the door and someone scooped me up and carried my brother and me away from the fire. I remember people shouting and running around, Peacekeepers and miners alike working together to get water from the pumps in the city center to try and put out the flames. I remember standing in a group of onlookers- mostly women and children- and calling out for my parents, coughing on the thick, oily smoke that filled the air. Sammy was crying and I cuddled him to my chest, making hushing sounds, telling him that he was safe. Dad appeared, but not my mother. Dad crouched down until he was eye-level with me and wrapped Sam and I in a hug, shaking with sobs he couldn't control. I knew then that I would never see Mom again.

Thirty-nine people died that night. The old, abandoned coal warehouse that had once been known as the Hob served as temporary quarters until new houses were raised. Nearly sixty families were forced to live together in the confines of that dirty, smelly, rat-infested building that winter. Illness decimated a large number of the refugees and many more starved or froze to death.

My sole responsibility was to take care of Sam. Our father- a miner like every man from the Seam over eighteen years of age- was gone from dawn until dusk which left me as the only person who Sammy could rely on. I was the only person who could protect Sammy. I think Sam saved me that winter. I missed my mother something awful but I wasn't allowed to give up or let my grief get the better of me because I had to make sure my little brother was safe. Sam gave me something to live for. He depended on me, needed me and that helped take my mind off the suffering that was going on around us.

I sang to Sam, all the time. His favourite song was one our mother claimed was so old people had been singing it since before the Dark Days. Sometimes when I sang, the other refugees who were nearby would pause and listen and a few times I was asked to sing a particular tune. Music is forbidden in the districts but in Twelve many Peacekeepers just let it go- they have better things to arrest someone for I guess- and I think some of them even liked the music as well.

Living in the Hob for months, although it did alienate many people- there were fights (sometimes bitter ones) over whatever possessions were left, the food we were given by the Peacekeepers, or territory in the cramped warehouse- it did bring others together. A woman named Ellen Harvelle made sure Sam and I always received our fair share when the rations were being doled out by the Peacekeepers. She and her husband were camped not far from where Sam and I were and Ellen spent much of her days in our company while William was working in the mines. Missouri Mosley, a healer, also became a good friend when she came to look after those who were ill or dying. In whispered voices, people swore that she had power and could see the future or know all about a person just by shaking their hand. I don't know about that but I am eternally grateful to Missouri for helping Sam when he caught pneumonia and nearly died because of the dampness in the warehouse.

No new houses were actually built for the refugees, despite what we'd been told. After several months of living in horrendous conditions in the Hob, we were told to either move in with family or find our own building materials.

Houses are small affairs to begin with, more often than not with one room serving as bedroom and kitchen and den combined. Many families in the Seam are quite large and most refugees found a sister or brother or parent or cousin they could lodge with.

Dad, Sam and I were not so lucky. Dad was forced to scrounge through the Heap- the Seam's dumping ground- to look for splintered or broken wooden planks, rusting tin and torn canvas so that we could have a roof over our heads.

At first our new home was no better than a lean-to that barely kept the wind and rain out but over the years the three of us periodically discovered useful items among the piles of garbage and added onto it. Now it looks pretty good, if you ask me. Not so different from the other houses that surround it. We have a stove, cots, a table and of course, a television- that was the only thing the Capitol made sure to give every refugee- because what would we do if we couldn't watch the annual Games or President Ever's regular speeches and announcements in the comfort of our own homes?

W

The center of town was decorated for the approaching reaping. Streamers and bunting covered the crumbling façade of the Hall of Justice and the shops too expensive for anyone from the Seam to go into.

Sam gripped my hand a little tighter as we walked past and pointedly stared at the ground.

I tried to appear calm and cool in front of my brother, show him that I wasn't scared. I told myself that there were dozens of other boys who could be picked- seventeen and eighteen year olds who also took the tesserae annually- and although it sounds horrible, I wanted one of them would be chosen as tribute. I couldn't be chosen, not me. I had to take care of my little brother. Sam depended on me most of all. If I left, Sam would be all alone. Dad was gone most of the day and oftentimes he'd return home too tired to do anything but wash his face in the basin and crawl into bed.

In District Twelve, everyone prays that they will be passed over in the lottery, even if it means that someone else will lose their child. No one bears any grudges against one another for this frame of mind though because, well, everyone feels the same way. I remember the previous lotteries I'd been in, standing in a group with other boys my own age, fingers crossed that my name would stay in the reaping ball and the relief and joy I felt when someone else's was called out. The only ones who actually wanted to be nominated were the 'careers' or young men and women from Districts One and Two who were illegally trained for the Games since they could walk. Sometimes they even volunteered to act as tributes for their home Districts if their names weren't picked the first time around.

The Hunger Games were supposed to be a time of celebration, but in District Twelve you'd have thought someone had died. No one smiled or laughed, voices were hushed and eyes were averted.

W

The night before the reaping, the Peacekeepers raided houses in the Seam. The head Peacekeeper, Increase Grim, made up some story about there being a threat of rebellion in the district and every dwelling in the area needed to be searched.

Sam, Dad and I were made to stand outside of our small house and watch while Increase and his goons turned over the table, broke the chairs, tore open the thin mattresses on the cots and scattered ashes from the stove onto the floor.

The night air was chilly and Sam huddled against me for warmth as the Peacekeepers drew out their search for as long as possible. I was worried about Sam getting sick- he'd never really been a healthy kid since the pneumonia- and I always got nervous whenever he shivered too much or had a runny nose.

"Will you finish up soon?" I asked one of the Peacekeepers standing outside with us.

Furlong, I think his name is, shrugged the shoulders of his white uniform and gave me a suspicious look, "Why? You got something to hide?"

"My brother gets sick easily and it's kind of cold out here tonight," I explained, not wanting to get into an argument, especially with a Peacekeeper.

"Too bad," Furlong answered, "Grim wants to make sure everything is thoroughly searched."

I gritted my teeth in frustration and looked down at my brother.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam whispered, "I'm not c-cold."

I knelt down and tugged Sam's threadbare sweater a little tighter around him.

"We'll go back inside soon, Sammy," I promised him and exchanged weary glances with our father.

After a half hour Increase swaggered out; his white uniform looked almost ghostlike against the dark of night, and addressed Dad.

"Nothing too bad this time, Winchester," he smirked. The last time there was a raid, Grim himself had confiscated a bottle of medicine Missouri had made up for Sam, saying it was an illegal substance, and tossed Dad in the stocks for three days.

Furlong sniffed in distaste and followed his master down the street to go terrorize another poor family.

We all breathed a sigh of relief as we entered our small house. Dad grabbed the spade and shoveled the ashes back into the stove while Sam and I inspected the mattresses.

"These can easily be sewn up tonight," I muttered, stuffing the straw back into one and sitting it back on its cot.

"But the chairs are really busted," Sam pointed out.

I nodded, "We can go to the Heap tomorrow and see if we can find any nails to fix them."

"Dean," Dad spoke up as he sat the table back on its feet.

"Yeah, Dad?" I asked, distractedly.

"You shouldn't antagonize the Peacekeepers like that," he warned, "Increase would arrest you on some false charge and hang you if he had half a mind to."

"But he won't," I argued, "I'm almost eighteen and the Seam needs all the miners it can get."

Dad shook his head, "Just keep your nose clean and your head down, son."

I sighed, "Yes, sir."

I dug the sewing supplies- a thin needle and catgut- out from their hiding place and fixed the mattresses so we could at least get some sleep.

From outside the sound of shouting set all three of us on edge. Sam moved closer to my side and Dad peered out the window carefully.

"What is it, Dad?" Sam asked, nervously.

"Increase is arresting someone," Dad told us, "Looks like Abraham Greer."

I stared down at my work. Abraham was an old man in his seventies who lived with his daughter and her children. I didn't really know the man all that well but he seemed nice enough. He was too old to mine anymore and spent most of his days tending the goat his daughter owned. Sometimes, if we had enough money, I'd buy some milk or cheese off him as a treat. The man never hurt anyone in his life.

"What's going to happen to him?" Sam asked, touching my arm, "Dean? They're not going to hang him, are they?"

"I don't know, Sammy," I answered and Dad moved away from the window to sit opposite us on the other bed.

"Dean, patch those mattresses up so we can get some sleep," Dad ordered but with no real force to it.

W

Sam picked at his slice of bread, tearing it into little pieces and scattering them onto the wooden tabletop.

I swiped the bread from his hands, "If you're not going to eat it than don't waste it."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled and stared at his hands.

I sighed and reached across to put one hand on Sam's clenched fist. My brother looked up at me, his eyes big and wet and his lower lip trembling.

Dad was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands dangling between his knees and a sorrowful look on his tired face.

"Sam, eat your breakfast," Dad said in a distracted tone.

Sheepishly, Sam took his slice of bread back and nibbled it but I could see he had no appetite.

I reached out one hand and placed it on my brother's forehead, worried that he was sick. There was no sign of fever so I relaxed.

It's just nerves, I thought, recalling how scared I had been for my first reaping. I had been so tightly wound up that day that when the Capitol escort called out the boy's name I puked all over my friend, Linnet Drover.

I looked up when a bell rang out once, announcing that the time had come.

Sam stuffed the last of his bread in his mouth and stood. I reached out and brushed crumbs off his dress shirt. I don't know why, but the Capitol requires a dress code for the reaping- everyone is supposed to wear their best clothes- but I guess it goes along with the celebratory atmosphere it's meant to have.

Sam was wearing a light green hand-me-down shirt and black pants rolled up so that he wouldn't trip on the legs. His shoes were the same ones he always wore, polished as much as they could be for the event.

Sam's hair had started out being brushed back, away from his face but throughout the morning it had moved back into its usual position so that his dark bangs covered his eyes.

Despite Dad's dark blue pants and white dress shirt, he still looked like a miner. His face was creased with lines, his beard and hair were going grey prematurely and he had coal dust underneath his nails.

Outside we followed the line of families who seemed more like mourners than eager participants in the Games. A lot of boys looked pale and sweaty despite their best clothes. No one spoke.

I held Sam's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before we arrived at the city center and broke off into our respective age groups.

I ducked under the velvet rope the other boys my age were corralled in and peered at the crowd of onlookers. I saw Missouri Mosley, her lips a thin line across her face and her dark eyes smoldering. Ellen and her husband stood watching with their daughter, Joanna Beth- a girl two years younger than Sam- and I caught Ellen's eye. She gave a slight smile and nod in my direction. Dad was standing with the other families whose sons were waiting for the lottery. He had his arms crossed over his chest and had his eyes locked on Sam, trying to give him some comfort.

"Hey, good luck today," Linnet Drover bumped into me and whispered.

"You too," I told him. Linnet shared the characteristic features of many of the people in the Seam- dark complexion, black hair and grey eyes.

Our attention turned to the podium and the two large, glass reaping balls position there. Why did they need two? Why not just pick two names out of the same ball?

The Capitol representative (or escort) stepped up to the microphone and cleared her throat. This was Sugar Zest and she had been presiding over District Twelve's tributes for as long as I can remember- I couldn't even tell how old she was because of all the surgery she'd had. She looked very out of place in our grey little world with her bright pink lips, white fluffy hair and crimson eye-shadow. Her dress looked like it was made of hundreds of tiny diamonds. I guess it was supposed to sparkle in the sun or something only there wasn't any sun in the Seam.

We all waited on pins and needles while the seal appeared on the big screen behind Sugar and the anthem blasted from the speakers at the sides of the stage.

"Isn't this just a glorious day?" Sugar simpered, smiling as though it was the best day ever.

No one replied and no one had to because Sugar went right on ahead, "This is going to be a very exciting Quarter Quell! And they only come around once every twenty-five years!"

No one laughed. A small child began to cry from somewhere in the audience and a man coughed loudly.

"Ahem, well, let's not waste anymore time," Sugar continued, deflating somewhat.

She smiled gaily as she opened the tiny hatch and stuck her hand into the first reaping ball. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and a drop of sweat ran down my spine. I sought out my brother and saw Sam wasn't even staring at the podium. He had his eyes locked on me.

I smiled and gave Sam a thumbs-up. Someone shifted nervously and my brother was lost from my view. My mouth became very dry. I swallowed what felt like a piece of raw coal.

"The first male tribute for District Twelve is… Dean Winchester!" Sugar announced and I think my heart stopped beating.

This couldn't be happening. My name wasn't supposed to be called! No, I had to stay and look after Sammy.

"Dean, you gotta get up there before the Peacekeepers drag you up," Linnet hissed in my ear and I moved forward on numb legs.

I ducked under the rope and out into the aisle that split the potential tributes from the audience. Two Peacekeepers, Furlong and a woman named Stone, flanked me as I walked up the pathway toward the stage, making sure I didn't make a run for it.

Sugar beamed at me, one manicured hand beckoning me up the steps. Once I was on the stage, she put her hand on my shoulder and once more cried my name to the crowd.

I felt like I did during my first reaping but instead of puking on Linnet, I was in danger of losing my breakfast all over the Capitol's escort.

"Now, let's see who will be joining Mr. Winchester, shall we?" Sugar asked the crowd and stuck her hand in the second reaping ball.

Sugar pulled out the next piece of paper and opened it, her mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise, "The second male tribute for District Twelve is Samuel Winchester!"

"No," I whispered, "No, not Sammy."

"Come on up here," Sugar encouraged my little brother as he slowly made his way through the other tributes toward the aisle, "Don't be shy."

Sam took a couple of steps toward the podium before his legs gave out on him and he tumbled to the ground.

"Sammy!" I cried and moved to rush to my brother's aid. I stopped though when I saw Furlong and Stone grab Sam's arms and heave him up, half carrying half dragging him toward the stage.

Once Sam was close enough I went to him, shoving the two Peacekeepers away.

"Sammy, hey," I murmured, not caring that the whole of Panem was watching us right now, "it'll be alright, you'll see. I'm with you."

"Isn't that a touching moment?" I was vaguely aware of Sugar giving a running commentary.

"Two brothers, together as tributes," Sugar simpered and giggled with excitement.

I fought back when Furlong grabbed one of my arms and pulled me away from my brother, "Get off me!"

Stone took hold of Sam and we were both led into the Hall of Justice.

"Dean!" Sam cried out when Stone took him in the opposite direction of where I was heading.

"It's okay, Sammy!" I shouted back to him and tried to pull away from Furlong.

The Peacekeeper opened a door just off the main corridor and shoved me inside. I turned around immediately and tried the handle only to find it locked.

"Damn it!" I pounded my fist against the door in frustration.

What had happened? One second everything was fine and the next my whole world had come crashing down on me? Sam couldn't be a tribute! He was only twelve! That wasn't fair! I didn't really care so much about myself, I could get over it but Sam, he was just a kid.

Pacing around, trying to figure out where everything had gone wrong, I looked up when the door opened and my Dad entered the room.

"Five minutes," Furlong told us as he closed the door again.

"Dad! Have you seen Sammy yet?" I asked and ran a nervous hand through my hair.

Dad shook his head, "Listen Dean. Something is going on here."

"Hell yeah something's going on! I know it's not uncommon for siblings to be picked but-" I began but my Dad raised his hand to silence me.

Moving close to my side, Dad spoke in a conspiratorial tone, "I think the lottery was rigged."

"What?" I asked, "Why?"

Dad shook his head, "I don't know. But I think you and Sam were meant to be tributes."

I nodded, "The chances of Sam's name getting picked the first time around-"

"That's what I'm saying! I think something is happening here," Dad gripped both my arms tightly, staring into my face, "You need to be careful, Dean. You hear me? Even more so if something's going on."

"But what could be happening?" I asked, "A rebellion?"

Dad shrugged, "Maybe. I never believed that an accidental fire caused your mother's death. People living in the Seam are way too careful about fires because they know what could happen."

"You think someone set the fire on purpose? To kill Mom?" I asked and Dad ran a hand through his beard.

"I don't know," Dad admitted, "But I want you to be careful and keep your eyes and ears open."

I nodded. I could do that. I wasn't so sure about my father's conspiracy theory, but I couldn't deny that the chances of Sam's name getting picked did sound a little odd. It is very rare that twelve-year-olds are picked as tributes, rare, but it does happen occasionally.

Furlong opened the door, "Time's up."

Dad's hold on my arms tightened enough to be painful and he leaned forward so he could whisper in my ear.

"If you can't save your brother, you'll have to kill him."

I stood there as still as a statue as Furlong ushered my Dad out of the room.

I couldn't believe that my Dad had just told me to kill Sam. There was no way I'd be able to hurt my own brother!

No, Dad's wrong; I told myself, there is no conspiracy and there is no way I'd ever kill Sam. It's the stress, I reasoned, it's messing with Dad's head. It's happened to other parents before.

I sat down on the floor and put my head in my hands waiting for Furlong to come back.

The door opened again and I looked up to see Cassandra Robinson slip inside. I gave her a wan smile.

Cassandra knelt down in front of me, kissing my lips, her hands on either side of my face.

"Hey, don't cry," I told her as tears welled up in her dark eyes.

"You come back, Dean," She told me, "Promise me you'll come back."

"I can't do that," I murmured.

Cassandra nodded and slid her hand inside the pocket of her white dress, "Here, for your token."

I looked and saw a plain, silver ring on her palm.

"I can't take this," I argued but Cassandra placed the ring in my hand and closed my fingers around it.

"Yes, you can and you will," she said with a smile.

"Okay," I sighed and put the ring on the second last finger of my right hand.

"Will you do me a favour?" I couldn't help but ask.

Cassandra nodded.

"Will you go see Sammy? I don't think he's going to have many people come, you know?"

I knew Cassandra loved my little brother as like he was her own younger sibling and she would do as I asked. She smiled and kissed me one more time before leaving.

Linnet Drover came to see me too. He wished me good luck once again and told me to give some of those Careers hell.

"You got it," I told him with a cocky smile that vanished as soon as Linnet's back was turned.

Missouri was the next to visit. She shuffled into the room, shawls wrapped around her and a sad look on her dark face.

I wasn't entirely sure what to say so I remained silent, waiting for her to speak.

"You look after your brother, you hear? He's special, that one," she told me and patted my arm.

"I wish Sam's name hadn't been picked," I said quietly.

"I know," Missouri said, "But there's nothing you can do now but win."

I shook my head, "No, I'll make sure Sammy wins."

Missouri hummed as though she wanted to say something more but then she just peered at me for moment before turning toward the door and disappeared into the crumbling expanse of the Hall of Justice.

Ellen Harvelle was the last person to see me. I was surprised that she had come at all.

"If anybody could make District Twelve proud, it's you Dean," she commented as she gave me a warm hug.

"Thanks," I murmured. It was really terrible when everyone had so much faith in you when they knew you'd most likely be dead within a month.

"Keep little Sammy safe," Ellen told me and I nodded, "He's such a sweet little kid."

Sam was a sweet kid. He didn't belong in the arena, fighting to survive against the elements and other tributes. Something about this was so very wrong.

Tears appeared in Ellen's brown eyes and she wiped them away quickly, "I hate to say it, but I'm glad Mary isn't here to see you boys like this."

I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat. I could only imagine what it would be like if Mom was still alive. From watching the Hunger Games for the first fifteen years of my life, I knew what the grief could do to people. Mothers and fathers who lost their son or daughter grew old before their time- their hair turned grey or white, lines seamed their faces, their backs stooped- and sometimes even died not long after their children returned to them in pine boxes.

I was worried about Dad. Sam and I were all that he had left and even losing one of us would be a devastating blow.

"Ellen, don't let Joanna Beth watch, okay? Not this year," I asked, almost pleading with the woman.

Sam and Jo were friends and it wouldn't be right to make the girl watch my brother compete in the Quarter Quell.

Ellen, teary-eyed, leaned forward and kissed the top of my head.

"Think of Katniss and Peeta," Ellen whispered, "Let them guide you during the Games."

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark are considered the patron saints of District Twelve tributes- not that the Capitol or the Peacekeepers are aware of it- and are often called upon by those selected for the Games and their families to protect them.

I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded. Sam and I could really use their help right now.

Ellen left and I had just sat down again when Furlong opened the door and told me we were leaving.

Stepping into the corridor I saw Sam- pale and shaky looking- but no longer in danger of collapsing again. He quickly rushed to my side and grabbed my hand.

"I'm scared, Dean," he whispered as Furlong and Stone led us toward the back of the Hall of Justice.

"Don't be," I gave him a reassuring smile, "I'll be with you the entire time."

We walked down the cobbled sidewalk to a part of the city I had never been to- the train station- and I couldn't help but stare at the sleek, black passenger engine that sat on the tracks. It rumbled like some monstrous beast and steam belched from its smokestack. Unlike the cargo trains with the words 'CAPITOL COAL' stenciled on the sides of the hopper cars, this train had a long line of coaches with windows on either side of them. No one came out to meet us but a door stood open near the front.

Sam squeezed my hand tightly as I helped him board the train first. Climbing up behind him, I turned as the door shut behind us, sealing our fate, it seemed.

I took a second to peer out the window and tried to catch sight of everything familiar to me in District Twelve lest I never returned. A hand on my arm made me jump before I realized it was my brother.

The train lurched and began rolling forward slowly, picking up speed as it left the station.

I smiled sadly when I heard Sam whisper 'goodbye' beside me, his face pressed against the glass of the window as he stood on the tips of his toes in order to see outside.

Don't worry Sammy, I thought, you'll make it back home if it's the last thing I do.

Author's Note:

1. This fanfic is based on the Hunger Games books, not the movie.

2. Please review!