I flip my braid, twirling it between my fingers as I wait. At the age of sixteen I only have to get through two more reapings - excluding the one I stand in right now - and I am free. But things never work out my way, as I learn.
"Valentine Newrose!" the escort Emil calls, tapping the glass bowl as she waits. Nobody volunteers, and I ball up my fists, holding myself together as I mount the stage. You've been trained, Val, you'll win.
'You'll die,' a voice whispers, and I can't ignore it. I will, however highly trained I am. I will fail. I shall return cold and stiff, folded into a wooden box. No hope.
Shut it Val, you're a Career. You've been prepared for this moment all your life! I put on a smile, and sit myself down carefully. My brain ticks over strategies, ways to get out of the arena with my heart beating.
Think, Valentine!
I have one planned, have grasped it and am checking it for flaws, when the name is called. Familiar - very. A name I have written on exercise books for years. My boyfriend, my sweetheart, my love.
I don't think. I jump up and yell his name. He's gasping out mine. He envelopes me and I'm so, so scared. yet reassured. I have my love with me. The look in his eyes says we have a lot to talk about.
