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Fall wanes into winter, winter blooms into spring. Flowering mahogany trees explode in fireworks of color before sheathing their branches in lush coats of green. Golden daffodils spring up in the grazing fields as cheery harbingers of the coming summer. Newborn calves trip over their own legs in our barns, blinking rapidly in the spring daylight. The raspy chik-chik-chik of cicadas calls out in the warm evenings behind an orchestra of gossamer violins.

Across the river, the gears turn on, the warehouses and factories churn out product, and resentment brews like an overcooked stew.

Gone are my winter coats and heavy boots, shelved until the winter snows so easily forgotten here in the waning days of spring. Keeping an eye on my father's herd of cattle keeps my eyes focused, but something lingers in the back of my mind, an unwelcome guest that refuses to leave the recesses of my thoughts.

When the Reaping approaches, I feel a gummy knot of nerves coalesce in my stomach. I've never been worried about the Games much in the past, but why worry now? Yet Austin's words – sometimes the Games have a way of finding you – speak to me when I close my eyes at night.

Golden spears of light break through my window on the morning of the 69th Reaping. I rub my eyes with my fists and throw my curtains across my window. I don't want to wake up today.

Relax, I tell myself. The situation's no different than any other year. Wake up. Pull your clothes on. The Reaping's not until five, anyway, one of the last of the day across Panem's districts. Plenty of time to calm down before the town forum beckons you to join the thousands of other eligible children.

I shove off my gray wool blankets and stand up, stretching my arms against the rough wooden wall of my bedroom. It's still cool from the humid night. I shiver as I slip into our home's bathroom, careful not to wake my slumbering sister or parents. They've always been late risers.

The faucet's cool water snaps my skin to life and opens my eyes. I pull my dark hair back when it refuses to cooperate and throw a simple green shirt on over my head. I'll dress into something more appropriate for the Reaping later, but for now, I don't care about looks. It takes me less than five minutes to go from bed to out the door. My family won't miss me until they need me, which isn't today.

I trot off into the long grass and glance back our homestead. It glows yellow in the early morning light as the sun bounces off the house's wood paneling. Our border collie, Shep, rolls over on the porch, knocking gnats and dew away with his white-banded tail. It's peaceful, stable. Normal.

I sigh and shake off my thoughts. Stupid.

The sun lazily climbs above the woods as I make my way down to the Ranching Yard, the village square for this side of the river. It's a half-mile from my family's homestead and a happening place, even in the early morning. Merchants and field hands crowd around a hundred low-slung wooden buildings, their feet kicking up dust in the well-worn streets that cut through town. Clothes of red and blue hang outside on clothes lines like proud flags. It's one of our key markers that separates us from the warehouse workers and laborers. Over on that side of the district, most people can't afford much color in their lives besides the flowers of the fields and the woods.

An old woman in a plaid shawl argues with a medicines and herbs vendor as I walk down the road, stamping her foot angrily in front of his wooden cart and white-bannered stand. She throws her hand in the vendor's face and walks away as he yells after her, "Fine! Walk away! You can't buy happiness!"

He looks around quickly, spotting me and several others giving him looks. "Wait a minute, sure you can!" he corrects himself quickly. "But only at my stand! And for a very affordable price!"

"Hm," a quiet, gravelly voice grunts to my right. "I didn't know happiness smelled like garlic."

I look over quickly. A tall boy my age with sandy hair and brown eyes appraises the vendor's stand with an amused grin. A grass stain dirties his patchy woolen shirt, and dust already has begun to collect on his jeans. I've known him for years. He's Plano Molina, one of my two best friends in the district.

"You're up early," I say. Plano's always been a late riser.

"Looking for Odessa?" he says, nodding his head down the main street of the Yard. "I caught up with her earlier. She's buying something or other for her family for after the Reaping. Let's go catch up. I don't really want to buy happiness, anyway."

I glance back over my shoulder. A huge, muscled man in a yellowed duster hands over a sack of coins to the vendor and scoops up a handful of seed pods. The vendor throws up his hands in triumph, exclaiming, "Sir, you are a man who knows what it is to find happiness! But you're a victor, after all, so that's a given."

I shudder. As the man turns around, I see it's not Austin. He's too big, anyway – Austin's a thin man, and this guy is a hulk with a thick mustache and high cheekbones complementing a mane of black, dirty hair. He's Cal, our other victor, the winner of the 42nd Games, and Austin's senior by ten years. He keeps a wide berth from the rest of the district, and given the chilly expression on his face, I don't question why.

"Yeah, let's go," I say to Plano.

Plano laughs as we walk down the street. "That guy sure did find some happy."

"What d'you mean?" I ask.

"You hear the rumors. I don't know if they're true, but I saw what he was buying," he says. "Cal's a drug addict if there ever was one."

I look over my shoulder again, but Cal's already gone. I won't press the issue. I'm not sure I even want to know what Plano means. It's common knowledge that many of the victors in Panem haven't dealt with their winning well. You can see it on the screens whenever they're shown during the televising of each year's Games, or just from the district gossip that gets around after Austin's blabbed to someone in town about the latest in the Capitol.

One more reason not to get caught up in the Games.

A lean girl with long auburn hair darts out of a storefront down the road, carrying a head of lettuce under her arm. She points at Plano and I, mouths "hey", and jogs towards us. I befriended the girl, Odessa Rhodes, back when we were both in school, before either of us had even met Plano. She's flirty and reminds me of my sister sometimes, but she's a good friend all the same.

"You two are walking way too close together," she says when we're in earshot. "Nope. I'm scooting between you."

"You're gonna divide us with lettuce?" Plano says. "What a dangerous weapon."

"I could hit you with this," Odessa retorts. "They'll have to mourn you at the Reaping, because you'll be too hurt to come."

"What a tragedy that'd be," Plano says and rolls his eyes.

I walk along quietly as they banter. Plano and Odessa are good for each other, and I think they'd make a fine couple. I can't help but feel a little left out sometimes from their conversations. Still, I don't mind too much. They're friends. I trust them, and that's enough for me.

I snap back to the conversation just as Odessa whines, "…gonna miss you at the Reaping when we're nineteen, Summer!"

"What?" I say with a light laugh.

"When you're eighteen and we're nineteen," Odessa frowns as we walk off of the street. "It's gonna be all sad having to watch you stand there with the other kids in the square."

"It's gonna be sad for all of thirty minutes?" I ask. "'Cuz…we go there, we stand around, and then we go home."

"You're talking all of the drama out of it," Odessa frowns, as if the Reapings for the next four years already are set to pick kids from across the river. Given the odds, however, I'm inclined to agree.

We purchase thin onion soups at a nearby vendor and sit down in the grass on a hill overlooking the Yard to eat breakfast. Cattle roam the fields for miles in every direction. They're little bugs lost among the green sea, interspersed with workers starting the day. Reaping Day's no different for most workers in District 10, except that everyone on this side of the district crosses the river before five to report to the town square. Heck, Odessa and Plano only have free time to spend with me given that everyone still eligible for the Games doesn't have to work today. Otherwise, they'd be off in the fields with their ranch-hand parents, tending to the herds of my family's neighbors.

The Reaping's only a quick intermission in the steady crawl of life, the Hunger Games something that impact so few people in this place of so many. It really does make the Capitol feel so far away, like an absent parent reluctant to interfere with their child's life. If it weren't for the Peacekeepers hanging around the Yard and the fence, most of us on this side of the river would hardly notice the Capitol on a daily basis.

I leave my two friends as the sun lazily begins its descent in the afternoon sky. Both my parents are out when I return to my home – big surprise – but Holly's waiting for me when I step inside.

"Why are you here?" I ask her as I close the screen door with a bang.

"Just thought someone should go with you to the square, since we'll all be watching from the street screens," Holly says. Since District 10's so large, only the eligible kids file into the square. Older people like her and my parents watch from side streets around the town forum.

She plays with her hair and glances up at me. "Nervous?"

"Why would I be nervous?" I ask, sticking my hands on my hips.

"I dunno, I just – I always was when I was younger before Reapings," my sister says with a shrug, looking away towards our small kitchen. "Stupid, I guess. Nobody here gets picked."

I scrunch up an eye at her before heading up the stairs to change. It is stupid. She's making me feel weird inside, like there's something to be afraid of. It's the Reaping. It happens every year. What's any different about this one?

Nothing to worry about. I shake off the nagging doubts and take my time changing into a plain blue dress for the Reaping. I leave my hair as it is. The Capitol can deal with a little subtlety on my part.

I waste time in the bathroom before tromping downstairs. Holly's twiddling her thumbs like a butterfly's wings when she looks up and sees me.

"Aren't you getting a bit big for that dress?" she asks with arched eyebrows. "You wore it the last two years."

"It's fine," I say simply.

"Why don't you wear one of my old ones?"

"It's fine. Can we just go and stop arguing about it?"

Holly sighs and gets up, nodding towards the door. She's making this a lot more complicated than it needs to be. An hour from now, I'll be back home and nothing will have changed here at the homestead. Why get all worked up?

I huff and shove the door out of my way, walking out into the golden afternoon sunshine. Others from around the district are moseying down towards the river bridge, heading towards the dilapidated town forum in clusters here and there. Holly grabs my hand to lead me on, but I shake her off.

"Why are you being all weird?" I ask her as I pull away.

"What am I supposed to do, just say 'bye' and run off?" she says, holding her hands out innocently. "I'm your big sister, I'm supposed to walk with you and whatever."

"Yeah, and you're not Mom."

"Well, one day I'll have kids. I'm already nineteen. I'll need to know what to do with them –"

"So I'm your test bed," I roll my eyes. "Thanks, Holly. Great. Let's go then, surrogate mother."

She mumbles something under her breath but walks on with me. This isn't really the conversation I want to be having right now. Her concern's welled up a ball of nausea in my stomach from out of nowhere. Now I'm feeling anxious for no reason over the Reaping. Way to go, big sister.

We don't speak to each other as we make our way over the wide stone bridge that spans the river. The water's moving fast today as I look down, blurring my reflection in its lapping crests. Little fish, minnows maybe, swirl in shiny schools under its dark surface. When I look up to where we're going, however, everything turns darker.

This side of the river isn't as idyllic and open as the ranches. Big, boxy canneries and meatpacking plants rise up on the horizon, faceless steel and mortar sepulchers. I spot the laborer children, they with the skinny arms and sunken faces and dirty hair like fields of charred wheat. They wear gray and tan and colors of the earth, camouflaged like oversized chameleons amidst the bright colors crossing the bridge to the Quarter. Even the stone masonry of the few buildings that surround the town forum a half-mile in the distance look disheveled and beaten under the sun. The square was surpassed as the merchant's ward years ago by the Yard, as the businesses of town flocked to those with money. Now only a few cheap clinics, bakeries, and grocers fill the yawning windows of the dark buildings here.

When we approach the line of Peacekeepers checking other children in, Holly grabs my shoulder and spins me around.

"Remember, just –" she starts.

"I know!" I say, my tone more of a snarl than I meant. "Relax, Holls! I do this every year!"

She breathes deeply and looks away. I hate when she gets all maternal, but I don't like hurting her, either. Holly's more fragile than her nineteen years reflect sometimes, leaving me often wondering who's really the older sister here.

"'Kay," she says with a forced smile. "See you after it's all done."

I shrug her off and don't look back. I feel bad for yelling at her, but I just want to get this done with. We can talk later.

The Peacekeeper jabs my finger to let me into the square, where Plano's waiting for me. He's hardly made an effort to look better besides running a hand through his hair and throwing a plain brown vest over his shirt. Clearly he doesn't think he'll be picked, either.

"You okay?" he asks me with a tilt of the head. "You look all mad."

"Holly's just being an idiot," I grunt, more to myself than to him. "It's nothing. Where's Odessa?"

"She already went off to her group. Listen, what are you doing after this?"

I raises an eyebrow at him. "Going home to eat dinner. Why?"

"Nothin'," he waves it off with a wry grin. "Since I have the day off, I was just – yeah, forget it."

I sheepishly smile at him before hanging my head and walking off to the fifteen year-old girls' roped-off section. Now it's not just Holly acting weird. Plano's usually the most natural person I can imagine around me. What's his deal?

Plano's family isn't much to write home about it, but more poisonous thoughts enter my head. Maybe he wants you to be busy so he can charge through Odessa's barn door finally, I think. Or not. Forget it. Stupid boys being stupidly cryptic right before the Reaping.

I glance around as I toss the thoughts out of my head. Two dozen stilt-mounted cameras line the rooftops of the stone buildings around the square, but this place looks as lonely as ever. Take away all the other bored or disheveled children around me and it'd be a mausoleum. The district Hall of Law before us looks absolutely apocalyptic, as if it's some relic from a bygone age with its stone façade and dusty crimson-and-gold Panem banner hanging from the roof. The desolate stage that's been set up atop the Hall's steps appears like a king's throne before a forgotten, evacuated empire. The only thing alive and responsive here are the Peacekeepers in full combat armor, looking much more alert and wary than I ever see over on our side of the river.

I bet this all makes for terrible television.

Our mayor, a woman with strawberry blonde hair in her mid-forties named Irving, slouches down on a wooden chair on the stage. She's a sad sight, really. The mayor position has little power in District 10. It's the wealthiest families – like my own - and merchants that run the show here in District 10 under the Capitol and Peacekeeper's eyes. All Mayor Irving has to do is make sure everyone in the Quarter shows up for work and takes the packaged animal products to the cargo trains from the Capitol that stop by every evening.

I cringe as Austin comes around from behind the building and steps onto the stage. I haven't seen him since that night eight months ago around the bonfire, and I don't much care to see him again. He's joined quickly by Cal, who maneuvers through a small opening between the two bronze doors of the Hall. Cal looks even more imposing from a distance than he does up close, with his shoulder muscles rippling underneath his tight dust-colored shirt. He looks like a tribute from District 2 or one of the other volunteer districts up there. Rumors say that the few people who know him call him kind-hearted, but with his wide hat casting a shadow over his hardened granite face, I'm content not knowing.

The final member of this song-and-dance shows up five minutes after the big clock on the top of the Hall strikes five. Every year, each district in Panem receives an escort – one Capitol citizen who helps organize the district's representation in the Hunger Games. I've seen other escorts for other districts on television in past Games, decked out in horrible, gaudy Capitol clothing and speaking enthusiastically, as if they were lecturing to toddlers.

That's not our escort, a woman in her late thirties named Cesara Vaughn. Far from it.

I'm convinced Cesara hates her job, but it must pay good as she keeps coming back every year. She hasn't been fired, either, so she must be a decent escort. Still, her droopy eyes, so much like my dog Shep's on a sleepy afternoon, convey an image of absolute boredom in repeating the same Capitol-prepared statement to District 10 year after year. She wears her scarlet hair modestly, and even her clothes aren't a complete atrocity, as she's donned a boring, sleeveless, lilac blouse and black pants for the Reaping. She doesn't even have any strange akin alterations like so many other Capitol citizens shown on screen during the Hunger Games of past years. The most Capitol-like thing on her is a set of spindly, skeletal-like tattoos that slither up her arms and under her blouse like coiling serpents. It's certainly not an inviting sight, but almost intimidating, in a way.

"District 10," she calls out, her voice ringing with all the charm of an earthworm cooking in the sun. I wonder if she broke Capitol tradition and woke up early. "I see you're all here. That's good."

I don't know if that was supposed to be a joke, but she silently mouths something that looks like "screw it" before moving on. "It's time for a speech from Mayor Irving, followed by a short video. I'll let her take over."

That was quick. As Mayor Irving moves into the same thing she tells us every year, I find myself entranced watching the interaction between Austin and Cesara. He points at her, smiles, and says a few rude thing I can make out from here, leading to a scowl from her. Austin seems to revel in tormenting the Capitol escort. All the time through the speech and video that follows it, however, Cal sits silently next to him. He folds his arms and pulls his hat lower over his face, blocking out the descending sun and looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here.

Cesara steps back up as the video ends on the big screen next to the stage. She coughs loudly into the microphone before announcing, "As every year, let's pick our two tributes from District 10. One boy, one girl."

She holds up three fingers when she says "one girl," leading someone next to me to mutter, "Way to count." I snort in response.

At least Cesara's efficient. She walks quickly to the boy's bowl, sticking her hand in and snatching out a slip of paper with a name on it in one quick move. Austin says something to Cal and rolls his eyes as Cesara steps back to the microphone with the slip in hand.

"It's uh…Thorne Cochrane," Cesara calls out with a hesitation in her announcement.

A ripple grows in the sixteen year-olds' section of the boys. I glance back as two Peacekeepers shove aside several boys and grab hold of someone. As they push out from the crowd, I get a glimpse of Thorne.

He's ordinary, in every sense of the word. His gray, baggy clothes mark him as a resident of this side of the district, and his loose brown hair looks like it hasn't been combed in ages. He's short for a boy, only about as tall as I am, and his face, still lined with baby fat, makes him look even younger. Like a lot of the other kids from the laboring families, he's thin. I doubt he's had the kind of meals we're used to across the bridge.

Thorne slowly slips up to the stage and climbs the steps with heavy, measured footsteps. Cesara shakes his hand and tells him something before looking out for volunteers. They're not as uncommon as one might think in a far-off district like District 10, but nobody sticks up for Thorne. He's in.

Cesara tosses Thorne's slip into the air and moseys over to the girls' bowl. I let my eyes lose focus as she digs around for a slip in the glass bowl. Should I be feeling sorry for whichever girl gets picked? Should I think like Austin told me months ago – that the Games are neither hell nor heaven? After all, whatever girl gets picked – probably from this side of the river – she'll have a shot at winning, no matter how small. Every tribute does. That's a shot at riches and safety, a life without worry ever again. Is that worth the extreme risk of the Games?

Maybe. Maybe so, if she's desperate.

But the girl who Cesara calls in her bored voice isn't desperate. Not at all.

"Glenn. Summer Glenn," Cesara drolls.

I freeze. Summer? Summer Glenn? But that's me. I'm not supposed to be called. I'm supposed to be immune to this sort of thing, untouched by odds that only pick their victims from this side of the river. No. Can't be.

The girls around me have noticed my tension. They start to back away almost instinctively, even those who don't know me. The Peacekeepers close in, and I look up to Austin on the sage. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes no longer full of amusement. They're now hardened, squinting blocks of charcoal hell-bent on seeing what I do next.

It's as if his eyes are repeating that line he told me around the bonfire, saying, "I wouldn't start thinking too far ahead, if I were you."