I'm singing inside. A chance, a chance, a chance. I have a chance. I'm aware of Sindaria standing, squeezing my shoulder, then leaving. I'm still gazing happily out the window when the outside world goes black. The train dims considerably. Then I realize we've entered the tunnel that goes through the mountains into the Capital.

I feel a quiver of excitement, and I strain to see further ahead, pressing my cheek to the cold glass. My attempt is in vain, but I've no sooner pulled back form the window when I'm dazzled by brilliant sunlight. My eyes find the Capital and I gasp.

Glimmering buildings in every possible color rise higher than the tallest tree. The wide, paved streets are full of gleaming cars. The strange people crowd the sidewalks, with their weird hair and clothing. I watch them begin to point at the train or hurry to hang over the guardrail along the tracks. I don't move, but I make sure they can see my bottom lip wobbling.

The train rolls into the station. Sindaria collects me and escorts me off the train, then into a car with black windows. We are driven through the streets, then Sindaria drops me off at the lobby of the Remake Center. It's a huge, yellow-brick building that I recognize from the chariot rides each year, where the tributes parade around the City Circle and into the Training Center.

"Sindaria." I catch her hand as she says, "See you soon," and turns to go. I carefully unclasp the tarnished locket and give it to her. "Could you … I want this to be my token, if that's okay."

She nods. "I'll submit it to the review board."

I thank her, and walk over to the front desk. A plump woman with yellow hair in elaborate, spiraling designs is typing on a slim tablet. I wait for her to look up.

"District?" she asks in a bored voice.

"Seven."

She pulled something up on her tablet. "Johanna Mason?"

"Yes."

"Okay, you'll go right up." She motions to a pair of Peacekeepers standing against the wall. They move to either side of me and guide me to an elevator. I step inside, feeling apprehensive. I've never ridden an elevator before.

The floor jerks beneath me, and I clutch the shiny handrail. We shoot upward. When the doors finally slide open, the Peacekeepers shove me forward. I hurry along a hallway with a glistening white floor. They stop me at a pair of tall ink-colored doors. I take a deep breath and walk in.

It's a cavernous room full of tables and shelves of beauty products. Three people are clustered around a television screen, but the second they notice me, they dart right over to shake my hand and introduce themselves.

Dyera, a woman with unnaturally bright white skin and tiny gold stars inlaid all over her body, beams as she pumps my hand. The other woman, Tubrette, seems to have a taste for red, because her hair, lips, eyelids, cheeks, and fingernails are all colored the same hue. Lukal, the only male, has luminous purple, orange-dotted eyes and thick curls of fuchsia hair. I realize they're my prep team.

They instruct me to take off my clothing. I glance around for a changing screen and another outfit, or something, before I remember that's out. I peel off my clothes, very aware of their eyes on me. They position me on a section of floor with a drain, then scrub down my body with a grainy lather that makes my skin feel raw. When I've dried, Dyera gives my a thin paper robe to wear, which I gratefully pull on. They wield files and shape my nails into perfection.

After this, I'm told to remove my robe. They plaster strips of fabric onto my legs, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows. I have no clue what this will do until Tubrette rips one off, leaving that bare area of my skin tingling and free of hair. They tug at the sticky cloth, chattering to one another about the Games. They keep mentioning someone named Auberg. I've no idea what they're talking about until Lukal sighs, "The best tributes always seem to come from District One!"

The others agree enthusiastically, with Dyera chiming in, "And Auberg is no exception!"

So Auberg is that muscle-bound boy from 1. Now I have a name for one of my potential killers.

Tubrette plucks off the final strip, and I can feel my eyes watering. "That's all done!" sings Dyera. "Now for the lotions …"

I have to go through lotion, too? Great.

The two women use thick rubber sponges to smear several different types of creams onto my body. At first it just makes my skin hurt more, but then it eases the rawness. They take up pairs of tweezers and walk around me, picking off any last hairs.

"There!" pipes Dyera. "You're finished!"

"Let's go get Trinalle," suggests Lukal. They dash out of the room. It's difficult to loath them. They're just so dumb.

I want to put my robe on, but Trinalle, who is presumably my stylist, will probably make me take it off again. I don't have to wait long. The door opens wide and a petite woman with dark blue skin and impossibly bright, gimlet-colored eyes strolls in. "Hello, Johanna!" she says loudly, striding over. "I'm Tinalle, your stylist. Welcome to the Capital." She circles me, peering at my body. I fidget uneasily. "How do you like things so far?"

Besides the fact that I'm heading to my death? "Oh, um, well, it's been—"

"Great!" she chirps, not really listening. "Let's go and get some lunch, shall we?"

I yank on my robe and follow her through a door into a sitting room. She offers me a seat on one of the sofas, and I take it, while she settles herself in an armchair. She hits a small button on a side table. The top part cracks open and another table rises from within, holding our lunch. Huge purple grapes, salad greens with some kind of dressing, slices of cold ham.

"So, Johanna, let's discuss your costume for the opening ceremonies. My fellow stylist, Gabea, and I have decided that you and Drake will be dressed in similar costumes, at least for the chariot rides. As I hope you know, it's traditional for the costume to go along with the, shall we say, flavor of the district!" she squeals.

I nod wearily. Our tributes, from 7, are usually in lumberjack or tree-related garments.

Opening a bag sitting beside her chair, Trinalle pulls out a brown-and-green heap of glittery fabric. "This is your chariot costume!" she trills, shaking out the mass of sparkling cloth. "And isn't it just fabulous?"

I swallow in anticipation and peer at the thing, trying to figure out what it's supposed to be. "Is it …" I trail off in confusion. "What ... ?"

"It's a tree, silly!" Trinalle giggles, waving a blue hand over the garment. She helps me cautiously change into the odd costume, applies my makeup, then turns me toward a full-body mirror.

Satiny brown fabric, with vertical lines of black sequins that imitate the pattern of tree bark, encases me from chest to ankle in a tight-fitting sleeveless dress. Uncomfortable wooden sandals are strapped onto my feet. A flamboyant headdress of branches longer than my arms adorns my head, complete with fake leaves. Vines are twined into my glossy tresses. My brown eyes are ringed with dark makeup and green lips replace my normal pink ones. My face is covered in a very fine layer of pale foundation.

So I'm a tree. From District 7, the lumber supplier. How creative.

Trinalle takes me down to the ground floor of the training center, where Drake and Gabea, his stylist, already wait. Drake is dressed is a costume similar to mine, but with a shirt and pants instead of a dress. Gabea and Trinalle fuss around us, daubing lightly at our make-up, straightening our headdresses. I glance at the other tributes.

Auberg and his female component are already in their silvery chariot, dressed in jeweled crowns and flowing robes. As they roll out the door, they look beautiful and powerful, like royalty. I hear the crowd screaming. District One's tributes are always favored.

I feel so stupid. Out of all things, why am I a tree?