I'm not the only redhead in the arena. There's a girl who doesn't speak much. They say her name is Finch but I didn't watch her reaping. I wouldn't know. On my plate I wait for the loud sound of the beginning gong, clenching my teeth.
When it rings I let out the breath I've been holding and shoot off of my plate. I'm not very fast, but I'm damn good at stabbing. Training taught me everything I know, and I got a five. A five isn't good enough, but who's to say I showed them everything I've got?
I stumble a moment later, spitting out grass and staring up at the figure looming over me: a blonde boy with a spear in hand, face smug with the satisfaction that a spear through the eye - my eye - is surely a lethal shot.
My reaching hand fell, and I knew that surely had become definitely.