And we're back with District 6! Also heads up that since I will be traveling the next few days I'm not sure how often I will be able to update. However, as soon as I'm settled I'll be back to a normal schedule. Hope everyone enjoys this chapter.

District 6 Reaping

Suzuki Nox (13)

The spider in my hands is shinny and black, with long spindly legs and bulging eyes. Beautiful. It crawls across my fingers with a grace that I know I'll never possess.

I'd found this one in the supply closet of the upstairs bathroom. Any other kid would have likely squashed it then and there but I felt pity for the poor thing. It deserved better than the bottom of a worn out shoe.

"Go on." I tilt my hand against the ground and spider scampers off across the packed dirt. Its free now, which is more than I can say of myself.

"I don't know why you insist on saving them." Next to me Peugeot picks at a tuft of weeds.

I smile at her. "They're just misunderstood." A bit like all us Home Kids if we're being honest.

I look around at the children who play nearby. The back yard of the Care Home is littered with broken toys, old tires, and other pieces of rubbish that are less identifiable. Under the relentless glare of the sun kids play halfhearted games of tag and hopscotch.

I lean back against the rough bark of the old tree and close my eyes. I'm so tired. Yesterday had been a long day of hauling materials to and from the garages. Now every muscle of my body hurts.

"Do you think they'll serve canned peaches tonight?"

I open one eye to peek at her. "I hope so." My stomach is already rumbling. I've eaten nothing since breakfast yesterday.

Since it's technically sponsored by the government, the Care Home is obligated to celebrate the start of the Games. They usually do so by serving a special dinner: meat from the butcher, barley instead of tesserae grain, and sometimes even canned fruit. It'll be the only time all year that we go to bed with our stomachs full.

The prospect of food is the only thing to keep me going through the day. I hold onto it, desperate to quell the wave of anxiety that rises every time I think of the games.

Peugeot must catch sight of the look on my face because she squeezes my hand. "It'll be okay."

At that moment Mrs. Porter—the bony unsmiling woman who supervises all aspects of life here—appears in the back doorway. She hold an old bell in hand, which she rings to get our attention. "We'll leave for the Reaping in thirty minutes. Clothes have been provided."

Peugeot helps me up from the ground. My muscles scream in protest.

Inside, the Care Home is unusually quiet. Most of the time the dark hallways and dingy rooms are a cacophony of shouts, tears and arguments. Today an uneasy hush has fallen over all the inhabitants. It's unsurprising; over half of the kids living here are eligible for the reaping.

All the girls aged five through eighteen sleep together in one bunk room. Our beds sit in a neat row down one side of the room.

In the center of the room someone has set out a box filled with dress clothes. They're all used, donations from the citizens of District 6. Everyone rushes to find something. I root through it and pull out a blouse and skirt. The blouse is stained and there's a tear in the skirt but they'll do.

Dressed I sit on the edge of my cot and wait for the inevitable: the moment when Mrs. Porter returns to tell us it's time to go to the square.

All around the room are ashen faces. A few of the girls have started crying. I don't blame them. It's all I can do to curb my own panic at the prospect of the reaping.

Hopefully none of us get picked.

Our odds aren't exactly good. To help with the cost of feeding and clothing us, every child at the Care Home is obligated to take out a Tesserae each year. The oil and grain new receive usually goes to the Home kitchen where it can be doled out in tiny portions to everyone. Still this means that despite this only being my second year of reapings my name will be entered twice as many times.

I think of the Games and a wave of nausea rolls over me. Last year had been horrible. We'd all be forced to watch on the old projection set in the basement. I'd cried for hours when the boy from our district—a sixteen-year-old who'd spent his years in and out of the Care Home—had been killed by a girl from District 4. Only Peugeot had been able to calm me down, rocking me like a child while I sobbed.

I don't know how people in the Capitol find enjoyment in the games. All that blood and gore only makes me feel ill.

Peugeot shuffles over and sits on the bed beside me. We don't speak. What is there to say? In a week any one of us could be dead. I wonder if she is as nervous as I am. Instead we just sit together quietly.

I wonder if Peugeot is as nervous as I am. If she is it doesn't show. Her face is as tranquil as always, exuding a level of calmness that I have never been able to achieve. I find I'm glad to have her beside me now.

All too soon Mrs. Porter is back. She herds us like cattle down to the front door where she promptly lines us up by age: oldest first.

All of a sudden, I feel very faint, my head spinning. "I think I might pass out." I whisper.

"Here." Peugeot takes my hand. "Hold on to me. I won't let you fall." I don't know how she manages to be so steady. If I could I would run away from the reaping, from the Care Home, from everything. I wouldn't stop until I was far far away. But that isn't an option.

She squeezes my hand one more time and together we step out into the street.

Axel Owens (14)

"However, the wicked rebellion of the districts was defeated by the capitol." In my lap Alanah claps her hands and lets out a shrill giggle. I turn the page in the book titles A History of Panem and continue reading. "From these dark times was born the Hunger Games. To answer for the sin of treason each district must, each year, provide a girl and boy to compete in a trial of life and death. These competitions—"

"Axel." My step mother's head appears in the doorway. "What are you still doing here? It's almost noon."

"Is it?"

Alanah has leaped up from my lap and scampered off to perch atop my bed. I rise from my spot on the floor and she reached out her arms to me.

"Carry me!" Her small, three-year-old voice is demanding as ever.

I'm not particularly strong but Alanah is like a sack of feather. I pick her up and spin her round, shrieking, before lowering her to the ground.

I glance back at my step-mom in the doorway. She's wearing the same light green dress that she wears every year for the reapings.

"Alright I'm going."

"No!" Alanah had planted her hands on her hips and is staring obstinately up at me. "I don't want you to go!"

I bend down and ruffle her hair. "I have to." If I don't I'll be thrown in prison, or worse.

"Nooooo."

My stepmother comes forward and lifts the girl into her arms. "It's all right. Big brother has to go now, but you'll see him later." Alanah starts to cry. My step mom looks pained.

I slip on my jacket and tie up half of my long shaggy brown hair.

She follows me, still holding a teary Alanah down the stairs and into the entryway. "Good luck." She tells me, the nervousness in her voice belying the calm of her face. "We'll see you after, yes?"

I nod. I will see them after. I will not be reaped. I will not. I will not. I will now.

I give them a final reassuring smile before stepping out the front door into the quiet street's of District 6. Our house is on the outskirts of town-proper. The houses here are an odd mix. Some like mine are larger, made of wood with two stories. Others are low squat things where poorer families eek out an existence. In the distance I can just make out the hulking shapes of the garages, and beyond it the reeking flats of the scrap yards.

I make out way down the gravel lines street that leads all the way to the central square of District 6. Above us the sun is ruthlessly hot. She chatters as we go, filling me in on all the latest gossip from her friends. I mostly nod, interjecting with the occasional question but otherwise remaining silent. I'm not really in the mood for talking.

Soon the gravel turns to pavement as I enter the nicer part of town. The houses here are all larger, with shop windows in the lower stories. Most of the stores are already closed by now, however when I pass by the dark windows of the rehabilitation center I can hear the low murmur of voices. Even on reaping day it will open, working tirelessly to combat the morphine problem. My own mother died in a place like that. I try not to think about it often, and we never discuss it at home. I don't think my father likes to be reminded.

The square is already full when I arrive. I have to shove my way through the crowd with many a muttered apology until I reach the desk where the peacekeepers are signing in stragglers.

"Name?" The woman in white snaps her fingers at me and I step forward. My heart thuds loudly in my chest.

"Axel Owens."

"Hand." I hold out my arm and she pricks my finger, stamping it in the little box under my name. "Next please." I'm ushered into a pen with the other fourteen year old boys. This is my least favorite part of reaping day, well apart from the potential of death in the arena. I hate how they jam us all in together. The claustrophobia of it all sets my teeth on edge.

Nervous, I drum my fingers against my leg and try to resist the urge to pull at my hair. I don't like waiting either.

Above the square, the sun is merciless. By the time our escort mounts the stage I'm sweating heavily.

"Happy Hunger Games everyone. May the odds be ever in your favor!"

"Suzuki Nox."

The name is met with silence. "Suzuki? Where are you dear?"

"She's over here!" I voice calls out from the thirteen year old's section.

There's a bit of a disturbance in the crowd. I watch as the peacekeepers drag an unconscious girl to the stage. She must have fainted when they read her name. I can't tell exactly how old she is, but certainly on the younger end. Her face is gaunt, and outline of her ribs peaks above the neckline of her tattered dress. My heart pangs.

Since she can't stand they prop her up in one of the chairs that are usually reserved for victors. She lolls in her chair and her unconscious face is projected on the screens that line the square. This image will no doubt be being shown all across the country.

The crowd is muttering unhappily. No one thinks this is fair.

But there's no time to dwell on the fate of the unconscious girl. Our escort has cross the stage to the second bowl. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I drum my fingers even quicker.

"Now for the boy." My heart thunders as she pulls a single slip from the boys reaping bowl. I wait, barely breathing.

"Axel Owens."

It's as if my heart has stopped.