Chapter 2

I wake up with my shorts sticking to me in an uncomfortable cold sweat. Partially due to the heat, I suppose. The impending Reaping can't have helped matters though.

My dreams last night were awful. I can't at all remember what happened in them, but those are the worst kind if you ask me– those that leave you with dreadful, unresolved feelings. I don't think I dreamed about Miria, though, but I guess I really can't be sure. All I'm sure of is that the dreams already have me in a bad humor.

I'm first awake in the house. I usually am. I'm sure my mother will be up soon, to cook breakfast (not typical of her, but she goes out of her way to do so every Reaping). Once she's up, it'll still be a bit before my brothers get up, and even then it will be by force. How in the hell they can sleep soundly on a day like this boggles my mind. My sister will be up some time later, but she's not yet twelve yet, so she mustn't yet worry anyway. I don't sleep soundly on less shitty days. To be completely honest with you, I can't remember having an actual good, satisfying, night of sleep since I was, oh, seven years old or so. Besides one time when I fell asleep with Miria.. That was only once, when we fell asleep at the foot of the big hill. Seven hours asleep in the woods. We were reported missing; a couple of Peacekeepers were out searching for us and everything. Our parents were not happy the next morning, to say the least.

Point is, my last good night's sleep was had in the woods with a liar.

I decide I'm gonna bathe in the river today. I don't know how things are done elsewhere, but that's not at all uncommon around District 7. The poorer parts at least. I mean, we have an aluminum tub here at the house, but I'm too lazy to fill it up right now.

Dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday, and a frayed, dried up towel (being the only one I could find) hanging over my shoulder, I make my way down to the water. I'm thinking I'll have little trouble finding an isolated spot today. Most people sleep in (or try to) on Reapings, and it's around five in the morning.

We have this dog, her name's Gossamer, though I doubt she'd answer to that. We usually call her Goss, or "baby". Honestly, the poor thing is probably convinced that her name is Baby. Dogs are commonplace in District 7, what with all the forestry and scouting that's done on a daily basis; dogs can be useful for detecting, or even ridding oneself of, things like bobcats and coyotes. She's decided, after charging up on me, running in circles around my legs, and furiously licking and gnawing at my forearm, to follow me to the river. She loves swimming We got her from one of our neighbors who had a large litter they had to give away, and she's one of my favorite things in the world. Probably the only thing that can make me spontaneously smile. Besides that other thing that's recently exited my life. Now that I think about it, the two things that make me spontaneously smile are bitches.

That was uncalled for.

Anyway. I found a spot to myself at what's commonly known as the Fig River. (I have no inkling as to why it's called that, as I have never seen, nor do I now see, any figs growing on its embankment.)

I shed yesterday's clothes and step into the river.

As I go about bathing myself, I try not to think of anything but washing the grime from my body. I cannot afford to obsess over anything irrational when I have very valid, and very tangible, worries about the Reaping hanging over my head. Not thinking is a heroic task, I assure you. I really need a smoke, and I'm mentally kicking myself for spilling the tobacco yesterday. I try just to focus on Goss splashing around and snapping at frogs.

Inevitably, the obsessions come, though. A new thought comes to mind. Or perhaps it isn't new, but only now fully realized: perhaps Miria's met someone else. I never even asked her. Hell, that's going to worry me now. I try to sort through my feelings, as best I can. How would that make me feel, if she did meet someone else? Angry? Sad? Indifferent?

Admittedly, the indifference idea is a pipe-dream.

Now I'm done with my bath, and I don't feel like putting on my dirty clothes, so I wrap the old towel around my waist, slip on my boots (I hate dirty feet), and walk back to the house bare chested. No one should be awake right now anyway, but I'd scarce care if they were.

As I'm rounding this giant oak that mostly obscure the path down to the spot where I was bathing, I see this kid that I know. His name's Bran; he's thirteen. For a younger kid, he's pretty smart. You can carry on a pretty enjoyable conversation with him. He also happens to be Miria's closest cousin.

Breaks. I don't catch any.

He starts to turn back. I guess he thought I was heading down to the river, as opposed to leaving it.

"Hey, Bran," I tell him. "I'm done, man, if you were going down there."

He turns back around. "Yeah I was. I thought you were about to go down there though."

We don't say anything as he walks in my direction and I his. Understandably awkward; Bran's pretty much the brother Miria never had. I'm sure he's already heard her rant about me.

Bran finally does say something, though. Shyly, "Miria's really pissed, you know."

I sigh. "I'd imagine so."

"She says you're a chauvinist and a baby."

"Valid, maybe."

"Asshole, too."

"Perhaps."

"And a brooding girly-boy."

"Geez, Bran, feel free to hold something back. Anyway, she thinks I'm a chauvinist and a girly-boy?"

"I guess so. I dunno." He looks down at the ground. "I thought it was kind of cool. You and Miria being together."

I scratch at the stubble on my chin. It's a tick of mine, especially evident when I'm trying to suppress something. So, you know, it's pretty much a constant tick of mine. "Well, I thought it was cool too. Take it up with Miria. Her decision."

"Alright. Bye Thatcher."

I tell him bye, but as he's walking away, I call out his name. There's something else I want to ask him.

"Hey, is there, you know, some other guy that Miria's maybe hanging around with now?"

Bran's face reddens. Answer enough for me. "I. Um. I'm not sure, really. Bye Thatcher." He leaves so quickly he's damn near running.

Yes. All the answer I need.

I get home and my mom's up. Breakfast is cooked, as predicted. M youngest brother Tanner's up. Timber's up (no joke, that's his name. I don't think it gets much more stereotypically District 7 than that.) My sister Trinity is up. Understandably, but no less bothersomely, there's no more than half of a griddle cake and a puny piece of bacon left.

"Thank you for saving something for me, dearest family of mine."

My mother looks at me, offense painted across her plump, accusatory face. "Now how in the hell are we supposed to save you something to eat when you're off goodness knows where at five o'clock in the damn morning?" She snorted. "Should've gotten something from Miria's house I guess."

Now, there is no way for my mother to understand how I'm feeling right now. There is no conceivable way for her to be aware of yesterday evening's events. So I stay my fury. Barely. I barely contain myself, say nothing, and go to my room to get dressed.

I have one pair of semi-acceptable dress clothes. Just semi-acceptable, though. The white long-sleeve button-up I'm wearing is a bit frayed around the hem, but it stays tucked in so no one will notice. Two of the buttons have been sewn on multiple times. I roll up the sleeves to my elbow, and augment this with a pair of slightly faded, tapered dress slacks, that, while rather hideously worn at this point, fit close to my leg like I like them. I put on some socks and the least shabby of my two pairs of boots. I decide to wear my glasses. I've been walking around without them today. Didn't wear them yesterday, either. Sure, I'm blind without them. But I swear no one takes me seriously when I'm wearing them. Or maybe I can just more clearly see their faces not taking me seriously?

Here we are. The big day. The Reaping.

I might crap myself.

I've never been this nervous about it. Never. Maybe it's because it's my last Reaping. I'm 18; I'm in the homestretch. There are nine instances of my name in one of those enormous glass bowls on stage. (I've only had to take tesserae out twice; we do rather well for ourselves, and District 7 is generally much less impoverished than some of the other tesserae districts. That's what a Peacekeeper told me once anyway.)

The town square, while not surrounded immediately by trees, still has curtains of tall pines surrounding it, about three miles away on each side. The town section of District 7 is in the town's very center, but that's virtually where the organization ends. The rest of the town is sprawled out a bit haphazardly. I've heard that the town hall stood before the Dark Days, but the rest of the town was rather virginal. I don't know if it's true, though.

We have five living victors. They're seated up on stage, four men and a woman. Kind of impressive. With all of District 7's wood-chopping, slinging an axe into someone's throat must be second nature.

I'm trying to make myself laugh, but that thought just made me shiver.

The mayor takes the stage. He's this skinny little guy with a pencil thin mustache who must be at least 50, but has never married. He's always wearing this manic smile on his face, like he just heard the funniest damn joke in the entire world. He creeps me out.

With a voice that's far too deep for his stature, the mayor booms into the microphone, "Happy Hunger Games!"

Oh goodness. I'm clenching my jaw and trying to look like some kind of badass, but I am really scared now to tell you the truth. My hands are trembling so bad they're nearly jumping, so I do my best to ball them into fists and jab them into my pockets.

The mayor goes through the history nonsense. The Dark Days. The Rebellion. Thirteen Districts (minus one), two children offered in Tribute. Yada-yada. Anyone out here over the age of five could most likely recite it by heart.

Now, the floor goes to Coponious Mastiff, our escort three years running. He's a young man; can't be more than thirty. The girls find him handsome for whatever reason. I don't see it. He has this ghastly, purple, slicked back hair, and these awful purple sideburns that kind of curl into a mutton chop sort of deal. He's always wearing some kind of purple clothing, too. This year, it's a tight fitting white coat and pants, with purple shirt and shoes. Capitol people are weird.

He's also cocky as hell. I guess that's why the girls like him.

"Hello there, District 7," he say, with a smirk. "How are you fine folks doing today?"

There's quite a crowd response. More than there should be, for sure, but it's probably just the horny teenage girls that find that plum colored monstrosity attractive. I hope so, though that's bad enough. This guy's about to murder a child by proxy. I'm not sure my peers understand this. Much less the fact that one of them could be that murdered child.

"Wonderful! Happy Hunger Games!"

More response.

"And..."

Oh no. Here it comes.

"May the odds be ever in your favor!" He winks. The bastard winks.

Well, on the bright side, my disgust has clouded out a bit of my anxiety.

Coponious walks over to the first bowl, filled near to the brim with little slips of paper.

"Alright, ladies. It's your turn." He reaches his hand in. "Good luck."

He makes a big show of gracefully swimming through the slips of paper, as if the speed with which he picks a piece will affect his selection.

I honestly have little worry about the female selection. Miria's nineteen years old, so she can't be drawn anyway. Though I hate that I still consider worrying about her.

I mean, I have a couple of friends that I'd hate to see get selected, but that's happened before. My friend Megan Langley got selected one year. We were pretty close friends, too. She's not sitting up there in the victors section. She was so sweet, I knew she wouldn't be able to kill anyone. She didn't. Died in the Cornucopia within a minute.

But I'm much more worried about the male selection. That could mean Timber, or Tanner. Or me. But it seems very conceited to admit that I'm worrying about myself like that.

Coponious draws his hand out. "Let's see here." He reads the slip of paper. "Our lucky lady is... Ms. Juno Ogden! Come on up!"

Well, she's not one of my friends. I don't know her at all, actually. She's making her way up to the stage now, her face... just dead looking. I can't blame her.

She's rather pretty. Nothing to match my typical tastes, but pretty. Nicely tanned skin, dark hair and eyes. Tall, slim, athletic. I'd wager she's training to be a Climber.

Or was.

So Coponious pats her on the back and whatnot. Smiles at her, congratulates her. Her face remains dead, expressionless. I respect that.

Coponious is still smiling, though. "Alright, fellas, it's your go!"

There he goes again, wriggling his arm around inside the bowl. The male one this time, of course. I wish he'd hurry it up.

I am sweating. My teeth are chattering. I'm shaking, and I can't stop myself. Tanner. Timber. Please, don't let it be one of them. And, still, I think, this is my last year. Don't let it be me.

It's not. It's some other kid. Not Tanner, not Timber, not me! We're good! I'm good! I'm home free. No more fretting over my own selection. Now I'll only have to fret for my siblings until they make it through. But me, I'm safe.

Bran's not.

"Branson Caldwell! Come on up here, brother!"

Bran. No. Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it. Why does this worry me? It's just Miria's cousin. I mean, sure, I like the guy. I like a lot of people though.

Don't do anything stupid, I tell myself. Please don't do anything stupid.

Bran's made it up to the steps of the stage. He's crying already. I feel sorry for the little guy. It's killing me. He was a good kid.

He's walking across the stage.

This is your last year, don't be stupid.

All those memories of me and Miria babysitting him and his brother flash through my head. I used to play catch with him and stuff. I'd help him with school compositions. Shit.

Coponious is about to put his hand on Bran's shoulder.

Don't be stupid.

I hear a guy yell, "Hey!"

What was that all the sudden? Guess someone's volunteering. Oh my. What a relief.

"I, uh. I volunteer. I volunteer for Bran." The guy's voice is pretty shaky. Deep, but shaky. He's trying to sound tough, but failing.

Now everyone's looking at me. Why's that?

Oh. Oh I see.

I guess I'm going to be playing the Hunger Games.