The Mockingjay is staring at me, but I could care less that she thinks me weak now. Peeta's face has paled to a snowy white. He was not expecting a volunteer, much less one that would have this affect on the other tribute.

"What is your name?" Peeta asks.

"Kayd Gregory." He answers calmly. But his eyes are locked on me, on the other side of the stage, wilted to my knees. I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze, to face the reality of what he has just done. I now understand what he meant by 'have it your way.'

"How old are you Kayd?" Peeta asks.

"Eighteen." He says.

"Can you tell the crowd and the viewers in the districts why you volunteered?"

"For the same reason she did." Kayd points across the stage. At this I finally stand and look directly at him. Kayd steps away from Peeta and begins to walk across the stage towards me. The crowd, even his large family, is so silent I can hear the snapping to the fabric of the flags high above our heads as they blow in the slight wind. When Kayd reaches me he takes my hand in his, winding his fingers through mine. And he stays this way. Neither of us say anything for a long moment. If they were looking for dramatics they will certainly have their fill in Section twelve.

"Well Ladies and Gentlemen we have certainly had quite the reaping day!" the representative has taken the mic back from Peeta who looks so pale and horrified I am worried he might pass out, "You may all return to your homes where the other reapings across the city will be broadcast in just a few moments!"

Kayd and I are ushered off the stage and into the main hall. When we reach the tiny rooms where we must stay until the train comes to take us to the arena I realize that they intend to separate us. I grip Kayd's hand even tighter when security says that we have reached his room. To my surprise however, he bends down to kiss me gently then shakes off my hand and walks into the room. I bite down on my lip and the pain somehow keeps me from calling out as they lead me down the hall to my room. I pace the intricately decorated room, lifting and touching and moving every object that I can. I have just re-arranged a display of tiny glass animal sculptures when the door opens for the first time. The security move to the side to let a bedraggled, scruffy man into the room.

My father reeks of liquor and cigarette smoke. He has on old grey sweat pants and a ripped navy shirt with unrecognizable stains near the collar. His dark blond hair is a mess of what should be curls but now appear to be just one giant knot. I cross my arms tightly and stare at him, waiting. I wish he would leave and stop wasting the already short time I may have to spend saying goodbye to people who really matter. My father has never really been present in my life, and I know for a fact he would rescue his liquor from a burning building before me. So I wonder why he is here now. What kind of goodbye could he possibly have to say?

He saunters right past me and leans against the window sill, "What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now girl?" he asks, a tiny smile plays across his face.

"What do want?" I ask, not bothering to play his stupid games.

"Now, now, don't be so cold towards to your old man Novalynn." He takes a step closer to me and I back away, "I just wanted to say a final goodbye to my dear daughter."

"Then say it." I growl at him, balling my hands into fists and digging into my palms with my nails to keep from reaching out and hitting him.

"But then again," my father starts walking and I realize I am cornered, "it might not be a final goodbye. This game is about killing people and you know all about that don't you?"

I can smell the alcohol on his breath he is so close to me, that familiar sneer on his face. The look of anger that always overcomes him when he talks about what I did. My father is referring to the death of my mother and older brother. The deaths I, two years old at the time, am apparently responsible for. My mother and brother died in a terrible house fire fifteen years ago because I screamed until my brother ran back in to rescue my favorite toy and my mother ran in after to rescue him. The story goes that a electric heater caused the fire but to this day I still believe it was my father's cigarettes that lit the fire and that he drinks and blames me to relieve his guilt.

"Maybe I'll come back trained to kill and finally be able to get rid of you." I mumble.

"What'd you say girl?" He slurs reaching out and grabbing onto my chin in the same place Kayd did earlier this morning, only the gesture is so very different.

"Don't. Touch. Me." I spit, trying to wrench my face from his iron grasp.

My father grips my jaw tighter then in one quick motion uses this grip to throw me to the ground. On the way down my shoulder hits the table with the glass animal display and it comes crashing down. Pain shoots down my arm and I back away like a crab, scuttling across the hardwood floor. This is nothing new. My father takes his anger out on me at least twice a week. Usually I am able to escape to Kayd's house before the abuse goes too far but sometimes, like right now, there is no escape. He takes two quick steps towards me raises his foot and begins to kick. He hits my stomach, hip, ribs and eventually my shoulder in the exact same place as the table.

The last kick causes me to cry out which draws the attention of the security guards. They rush in and seeing the situation drag my fuming father out of the room, mumbling apologies to me as they go. I crawl carefully back to the tipped over table pain taking over my body with each movement. Starting the Hunger Games with previous injuries is just going to make things even worse. I am sure the Mockingjay will think I am useless when she sees the bruises.

I am examining a miniscule glass dog that has had both its ears broken off in the fall from the table when the door opens again. It is Reja and her family. I take a deep breath and haul myself to my feet as they stare at me in horror. Suddenly Mrs. Castrop hurries to my side, helping me over to the couch where I can sit. All the while she is looking at me as if she is aware this small gesture in no way makes up for what I have done for her daughter. Once I am seated on the couch everything is silent for a moment. All eight of the short, tiny, dark haired Castrops are watching me, unsure of what to say. I am unsure of what I want them to say. Do I want them to thank me? No, I don't think so. What I did isn't something you can simply thank someone for. Perhaps they should yell at me, tell me how stupid I am. I suppose I could handle that.

"I'm so sorry Nova." Reja finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What are you sorry for?" I ask quietly, "You haven't done anything wrong."

She wipes tears from her wide, chocolate brown eyes "I don't know. I'm just sorry you have to do this when it should have been me."

"I didn't have to do this." I answer.

For a moment Reja is silent, "But you did." She finally says. Then, without a word from the rest of her family they all turn to walk out. Only, before the door can close on them Mrs. Castrop turns around and rushes back to me. She kneels in front of me, taking both my hands in hers, her mouth opening and closing as if she is desperately trying to say something to me.

Finally she just stands, kisses my forehead and mutters, "You didn't have to Nova, but you did." Then she too walks out the door.