A rectangle of mottled light plays across my bed. The train has been moving westward all afternoon and into the night, and the trees that grow in stretches alongside the track fascinate me. I hold out my hand, and watch the shadows of leaves against moonlight speckle my fingers. I'd never seen a tree before we began speeding toward the Capitol.

We never learn much about the different districts in school, other than how large they might be, what they produce. We know what parts of Panem they're situated in, the sections of the country once known as America they grew out of. District 12 used to be a place called Appalachia. The Capitol is in what used to be the Rocky Mountains. District Six supposedly had lakes bordering it, long ago.

Now, it's eaten up in its entirety by warehouses and factories. I try to imagine the place I grew up in as it was hundreds of years in the past; a landscape fuzzy with trees, animals in the forests. Wide expanses of water just over the horizon.

My bedroom on the train goes beyond the bed, but I'm reluctant to get out from under the covers. Pallas told us the chest of drawers is full of clothes for our use. The shower sits unutilized in the other corner. I've dreamed of having these things, but didn't expect to be given them, even in this situation.

It seems ironic-all the luxury before the slaughter. Do the people in the Capitol know what it's like to live in the Districts? Maybe we're expected to be as well taken care of as they are, and we can't be seen as the undernourished worker ants we actually are. That wouldn't be nearly as impressive, I think. Watching as twenty four street children eviscerate each other.

I've had all afternoon to explore my compartment and the rest of the train. I couldn't bring myself to, though. After we boarded, Pallas led us into another car and we sat down to watch the recap of the Reaping throughout Panem. Singe and Torch sat in chairs on either side of the couch where Pallas and I sat with Rig-that's the boy tribute's name.

Twenty two tributes, each with family, friends. A seat in a classroom empty for everyone. A place in an assembly line.

After years of watching the Games on television, you would think you'd become desensitized to it. Every time a name is called in a district, from the multitudes gathered before the stages, it hits you: they aren't going back. And this time, I will likely be responsible for that.

The Careers from One and Two look pretty much the same. Well-fed, groomed, confident. The male tributes are tanned, some with bulky muscles, some with lean athletic builds. The females have strong shoulders, bold eyes, short hair sometimes. Trinket, the girl from One has gorgeous chestnut hair that reaches her thighs.

District Eleven has a pair of tributes that could be brother and sister, they look so much alike. Right away, I christen them The Twins. When they're called, they step right up. Twelve is not as stoic. The boy and girl are small, underfed, you can tell.

Everyone anticipates District Four, because Finnick Odair is Mentor. He glistens onstage, as if he just slipped out of the water. But he doesn't smile when the names are called. He grips the hands of the boy and girl as if he can transfer some of his winningness to them through his fingertips. The girl looks simultaneously like she can't believe she's touching him, and like she's about to be sick.

Whether it's because of the celebrity in front of her, or the coming bloodbath, is debatable.

Rig shifts in his seat. The screen has also changed. We're on. This is extremely strange to me. I watch, rapt, since I can't remember what transpired after I was called. "Chrome Grant." There I am, with Titania and Streak horrorstruck. I don't fall like I thought I did, I can see now. I stand mutely, not even raising my head for a score of moments. Then, with brief glance behind me, I move.

Pallas pulls the second slip of paper from the giant bowl, calls "Rig Simon." For the first time, I see his face, unobstructed by adrenaline or fear in my system. They do a close-up as he reacts. Which they must regret, because he doesn't.

He glares stonily at Pallas, like our escort has chosen him on purpose, before he lowers his grey eyes and steps out of line...and falters. I take my eyes off the television, embarrassed for him. I'm sorry that he stumbled, knowing that that might give people the impression that he is clumsy. That kind of prejudice can make it hard to get sponsors. Without sponsors, it's that much harder to survive.

I notice I've been going along as if he is going to die with me. There's the chance he may win, however. That he might have to kill me to do so. That he's already planning this. I can't blame him if he is; but it would be easier if I were able to think of us as partners. We could survive longer together.

District Three is Technology, and the tributes are certainly wiry-looking. In the arena, people from this district have electrocuted people, killing whole groups at once. I pause to guess what might be in the Cornucopia this year-will there even be something conductive? There's an odd that there could, in fact, be nothing but knives and cheese. Some people don't even get that far, so it doesn't matter what it holds.

The girl, Audia, wears glasses, and carefully folds them, putting them in a pocket in the front of her blouse before she goes to the stage.

Nine and Ten come next, Grain and Cattle respectively. Block, the male tribute from Ten wears weird, sturdy boots that come halfway to his knees, and look like they're tipped with steel. The girl wears a smaller pair in the same style. In nine, the girl that is called has curly, short hair that reminds me of the fibers that peel away with the husks on corn.

We stay in the car until the last three districts tributes are chosen, and Pallas keeps Rig and I behind when our mentors clear out for bed. He leads us to the observation carriage and we sit in one of the white leather booths, looking out at the pinpricks of light that dot the night.

Pallas crosses his legs, indicates the land speeding behind him, "District Five. Electricity, I'm sure you know."

Rig raises one eyebrow. Disdain is the one emotion I've seen him exhibit, today. He didn't even blush during our replay.

"...Yes." I acknowledge. I guess Pallas is sort of a dandy. His accent is less affected than others from the Capitol, but the hair and clothes make it hard to take him seriously. And we should be, I realize, suddenly. No matter how bizarre he seems, he is still who will be talking to the sponsors for us. Torch and Singe are obviously incapable.

He's clearly thought this himself a number of times, as the first words he speaks into the awkward silence are, "I must apologize for Miss Norton and Mr. Hebrides. Their condition is no boone to your situation. That too, I suppose you already know."

He tugs at his pant leg, straightening a crease marring the line of the fabric. "You've both been remarkably calm, however, with the shock of today's drawing. I've seen it before, but it wears off. That's good: you need to get acclimated to the atmosphere that is going to surround you as soon as possible. Absorbing information is crucial, if you want to stand a chance."

"How do you think we feel?" Rig asks. He has a low voice that squeaks on the high notes. "You're not exactly the one who has to get used to the eventuality of your death, are you?" His face is a mask of extreme skepticism. Pallas meets him with his own crooked eyebrow.

"No. I'm not. But I've had to accompany those that have dealt with that fact or better or worse, with varying outcomes. You may not recall all the tributes that've gone before you, but I do-"

"Don't remember them?" I ask. Is he serious? "How can you imagine that we don't? They're people we've grown up with. I've had eighteen years to meet them and watch them die." I'm not sure if I was aware before now, but I do remember them. All of them since I have been old enough to pay attention. Their names run through my head...

"Hebron," says Rig. I'm surprised, but gratified. "He was last year, and the year before was Pane." He looks at me from his side of the booth.

"Spoke and Fever." The female tributes from Six that were paired with Rig's two. Fever was in my metalworking class. "Before that were Mandala and Thermin. Then Feron and Ash."

Rig continues, "Brake and Lattice." Brake was a blond townie that my brother used to hang out with. Lattice was a grade above mine.

"Solder and Velocity." Velocity had been a beautiful girl. Thirteen. She was killed on the first day. Solder was twelve.

"Lush. James won that year-then died." Lush had been in my classes the previous year in school. I see Rig's eyes welling up-out of anger or sadness? He goes on, though.

"Terran and-"

Pallas cuts in. "Impressive. You have, appropriately, tried to shame me." He watches us for a bit, then. An attendant brings in a carafe of water and three tall glasses, and promptly disappears again. I'm breathing hard, and study the glass closest to me as my breath fogs up the glass, slowly dissipates. "I'm sorry," says Pallas. He pours us each some water and waits for Rig and I to drink.

I nudge Rig, who has begun to look at the floor, his cheeks burning. His lashes flick as he darts a tired look at me, and reaches for his glass. This is as far as he seems to get, so Pallas continues.

"One of you is going to die. At the very least. And I'm sorry for that. I do not sit in the presidential mansion toasting the Tributes' murder each year. You don't appear to believe that I do my best to keep you alive."

"Why bother?" I ask. I feel Rig's attention catch, and he turns his head, listening more closely.

"There have been Seventy-Two Hunger Games. Of which I have been alive for thirty-seven. Someone has lived in almost every one. It might be you. If I believe that-if I can make you believe that, then your chances increase. Because that's all this is. Chance. You were picked by chance just like you were born in the Districts by chance, just like I wasn't, by chance.

"You are here, like it or not. Do not let them have the satisfaction of killing both of you simply because they have the chance to."

It would be a rousing speech if I thought it meant anything. "But it's not only that," I say. "They don't just have a chance. They have the opportunity. They have the advantage. I'm not a Career-I was dead when they called my name."

Rig looks up. At me. At Pallas. "The Gamemakers. They can kill us however they want to-weather, mutts. We're only alive as long as they like us. And they only like us when we're killing each other. She's right." His face swivels back to me. "I didn't train for this. The odds aren't in my favor either."

"So you want to give up," Pallas wants to know, dumbfounded. "You're going to walk into the arena and let whoever gets there first, kill you."

There's a noise. Like a choke, or a laugh...I can't tell if it comes from Rig or Pallas. They do both appear to be near a hysterical laughing fit. Then Rig chuckles, softer now.

"No. I'm not going to let them kill me." He says. "I'm gonna do it myself."